


A Study in Lying

by severalkittens



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:35:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: “Think you’ll ever leave Tottenham?” Eric says lazily.“Nah,” says Dele. “I’m a lifer.” That unanswered email from his agent festering in his inbox says otherwise, but Eric doesn’t need to know.





	1. Chapter 1

Dele never realized how easy it was to lie until he met Eric.

First, he lies to himself. It’s day one, and he’s fallen asleep in one of Poch’s tactical lectures. After years of pretending to care about school, he thinks he’s pretty good at it. A whole month goes by before he realizes he was wrong. They’ve lost a game, and it’s Dele’s fault.

“It’s not my fault,” he says, “how was I supposed to know where Pogba was going to put the ball?”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t fallen asleep on your first day, you would’ve heard Poch explain exactly why,” says Eric. There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes and Dele hates it. It makes him want to explode.

After the fact, Dele can’t get those mischievous blue eyes out of his head. He tells himself it’s because he’s still mad about the game, still mad about being caught sleeping. He doesn’t understand why the rest of the team is so obsessed with Eric Dier. Dele thinks he’s kind of mean.

 

“How can I talk to the kit people about changing up my kit?” Dele asks Harry Kane one day.

Harry doesn’t know, it’s been years since he changed anything about his kit. “Ask Dier,” he suggests. “He changes his all the time.”

“Oh, ok. Sure,” Dele says, without really intending to do it. He’s still scared of Eric. He’s sure someone probably told him all this when he first joined, and he doesn’t want Eric to make fun of him for falling asleep, or not paying attention.

“Seriously, you should ask him. He’s really helpful, and he just joined a year before you. It’s fresh in his mind, being new. You should get to know him.” Dele didn’t think he’d been that obvious.

“Fine, I’ll ask him.”

He does, and he’s surprised to find that Dier is actually really helpful, and really friendly. After that, he always asks Eric, whether it’s a question about life at Spurs, or an invitation to come over and play Fifa. But those twinkling blue eyes are never off his mind for long. He still feels a little pang whenever he thinks about the shape Eric’s eyes are going to make the next time Dele tries to engage him. It’s funny, because Dele’s not usually one to be intimidated.

 

One day they’re waving good bye in the car park when Dier winks at him. It hits Dele full force- he’s not intimidated by Dier, he’s attracted to him.

Dele doesn’t mind, actually. He’s not one for pining. He’s been attracted to people before, girls, guys. It doesn’t usually change how he interacts with them. It doesn’t bother Dele that Eric doesn’t want him back. More fish in the sea.

It’s kind of fun, in a way, to have such a beautiful teammate. It’s even more fun when they become friends, best friends. He gets beautiful Eric Dier opening doors for him, cooking him food, but none of the guilt that comes with pining for a teammate. It’s all harmless, after all, nothing would ever come of it. He knows Eric has a girlfriend. He thinks they might even have a daughter. Eric doesn’t even know Dele’s interested in men.

Little by little, though, Eric starts kicking up pebbles, and they lodge in Dele’s shiny, oblivious facade. They make little cracks that spider towards the edges. All the cracks whisper the same thing, Eric Dier wants you.

Like when Dele looks over at Eric during training, and Eric is already looking back. Or that time Eric texted Dele at 1:30 in the morning to check if he got home alright, even though they’d left the bar at 9. When Eric leans over at dinner, and bites a carrot out of Dele’s hand, lips lingering on his pointer finger. When a love song comes up on Eric’s spotify, and Eric looks over at Dele pointedly. Or how Eric comes over every day after training to play Fifa, even though he’s terrible at Fifa. Even though he’s got a girlfriend at home. Even though Eric once answered the phone, and straight-faced told her he was still at the training ground.

Someone else might have been ecstatic, but not Dele. He wants Eric to be a good guy who stays with his girlfriend and doesn’t hit on coworkers. He wants to be able to admire Eric’s beauty and face no consequences.

Most of the time, he thinks he can still do it. “Eric’s not into me. He has a girlfriend,” he tells himself. “I’m just being conceited. Not everyone wants me.” Maybe Eric’s just going through a hard time and needs someone to escape to.

But Dele can only lie to himself for so long. Deep down inside, he's terribly worried that he’s not just being conceited. That Eric does want him. And he knows himself well enough to know he might not have enough self control to walk away if Eric ever comes knocking.

So when that email hits his agent’s inbox, the one with ‘Barcelona’ in the header, Dele doesn’t say, “thank you, next.” Instead he asks, “When? How long? How much?”

He gets a reply a few hours later. The answers are impressive. Dele’s heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t really want to leave Tottenham, even though he knows it’s the right move for his career. The fact that they’ve had even this much contact is going to generate rumors. He just barely stops himself from hoping that just maybe, Eric will see those rumors and they will inspire him to show his cards.

 

It’s a week later. Dele and Eric are lounging next to Eric’s pool. It’s sunny, for once, and Dele’s got his snapback pulled over his eyes, and he’s got his shirt off in hopes of starting his tan a little early this year. He can feel Eric’s eyes on him for a while before he speaks.

“Think you’ll ever leave Tottenham?” Eric says lazily.

“Nah,” says Dele. “I’m a lifer.” That unanswered email from his agent festering in his inbox says otherwise, but Eric doesn’t need to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele's got a lot to think about.

Dele’s laid out on the couch in his boxers, playing Fifa with his brother. Harry’s picked Arsenal, just to wind Dele up. Dele’s picked Barcelona. 

Harry has the good grace not to comment on it at first. But then Dele scores with Dembélé, and all bets are off. “Interesting choice for you, Barcelona” says Harry, nodding at the television. “You given any more thought to that offer?”

“No,” says Dele, and it comes out harsher than he wants. He has thought about Barcelona. Actually, it’s all he’s thought about for the last week, so he really doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“No you haven’t thought about it? Or no, you’re not going?”

Dele sighs. “Both,” he says. Harry half-turns and raises an eyebrow. “Ok fine, neither.”

“I know what Tottenham means to you, Del. You’re allowed to move on though. You did at MK Dons.” One of the Arsenal players steals the ball from Dele, and makes a run down the left wing.

“I know,” says Dele, biting his lip. “I just, I don’t really have anything new to share. I’ve been spinning my wheels about this all week.” Much more quietly, he adds, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.” 

“What about Eric?” Harry pauses the game and waits for one of the footballers on the screen to play the ball out of bounds.

Dele’s caught off guard and the controller almost slips from his fingers. “What about him?”Dele says, miserably. On the screen, mini-Piqué clears a ball that goes out for a throw-in. He chews on the inside of his cheek, hoping Harry isn’t going anywhere fragile with this. 

“He’s your best friend, Del, have you talked to him about this?”

“No, not yet,” he did think about lying, just to change the subject. But he realized he’d have to make up too much. Like _what would Eric even say if he knew Dele was considering Barcelona?_ Dele shivered. 

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but you should-“

“-talk to him, I know, I know. I just, need to figure out how I feel about it first.” 

“Just looking out for you,” says Harry, staring down Dele intently.

Dele suddenly _really_ doesn’t want to finish this game game of Fifa. He regrets playing as Barcelona. It feels too real. But Harry is asking too many questions Dele can’t answer. “Would you just restart it?” he says irritably.

They play the rest of the game in silence, and Dele’s so distracted he ends up losing. Harry’s right, he does need to figure out how he feels. About Barcelona, and about Eric.

 

 

Dele decides it’s best to lay low for a while, so he can figure out how he feels without Eric’s distracting presence. That lasts all of 36 hours, until Eric bounces into the locker room before training. 

“Anyone up for drinks afterward?” he says, with a grin. Dele looks up a little too quickly. They haven’t done team drinks in months. 

“Team drinks? What’s gotten into you, mate?” asks Harry Kane. 

Eric grins mischievously. “Ah, nothing, Harry. Just think it’d be good to bond a little, as a team.” Dele pretends Eric’s eyes didn’t linger on his when he spoke the word ‘bond.’

“I’m out today, Dier. Going to go home and spend time with my girls. Can’t spring drinks on us married folk like that. Gotta plan ahead!” Harry laces up one of his cleats. “Wait a minute, what about your-“

“Victoria’s out of town,” says Eric, before Harry can even finish asking. He crosses his arms over his chest, laughing awkwardly. 

Dele feels like he’s been punched in the stomach at the reminder of Eric’s girlfriend. Apparently she travels a lot, and Eric all but disappears whenever she’s home. Despite the fact that she lives in Eric’s house half the time, Dele’s only actually met her twice. Everyone else seems to know more about her than Dele. He can’t shake the feeling Eric is intentionally keeping them on alternating schedules.

“Well, I’m in!” supplies Harry Winks, breaking the tension. Several of the Belgians are also in, plus Sonny, Eriksen and Lamela. 

And because he has very little self-control, Dele is in, too. He loves team drinks. He loves to be the center of attention, alcohol buzzing through his veins. He loves to be the storyteller, to read the table and come up with just the right delivery to garner belly laughs. He loves the way Eric looks at him, like he’s the most interesting man in the world. He loves when they’re a few drinks in, and it feels like they’re talking to each other, even at a crowded table. 

The promise of such an evening buoys Dele through practice. He zips around, teeming with energy, earning the ire of Pochettino for one (ok, maybe two) too many cheeky nutmegs. But he’s pretty sure he sees the glint of a grin as the gaffer turns away. 

Dele knows he shouldn’t be this excited to spend time with Eric but he can’t help himself. He whistles as he showers and changes, winks at himself in the mirror after he fixes his hair.

 

Eric had given them all the name of some pub, _The Six Wheelbarrows_. Walking through the door, it’s not what Dele would have chosen. He would’ve preferred a lounge, with fancy cocktails and dim lights. Staff who won’t look at half of Spurs starting line-up twice. But Dele isn’t about to be picky, not when the beer is cold and there’s an empty seat waiting next to Eric.

The first few drinks pass in a whirlwind of laughter and warm glances. Dele’s flying high as a kite, lost in Eric’s electric blue eyes as they laugh at something or other Jan said. Then there’s Eric’s knee, grazing Dele’s gently under the table when Winksy’s going on and on about his latest date. When no one’s looking, Eric steals the orange from Dele’s beer and then _winks at him_ as he slides the slice between his lips. Dele’s too content to wonder what it all means. 

They mercilessly rib Lamela for his garish outfit choice, then move on to grilling him about his girlfriend. Dele absolutely cackles at Lamela’s discomfort when Eric needles him about proposing. “It’s been seven years, Lamela, how many more are you going to wait?” 

“I don’t think she needs a piece of paper to know I love her,” says an incensed Lamela, pink in the face and staring at his beer.

“Hey, have you thought about proposing to Victoria yet, Dier?” asks Jan, sending Dele crashing back to earth. Dele could smack him. This is the last thing he wants to talk about. He’s dreading Eric’s answer, and he hates himself for feeling this way.

“So, funny story,” Eric starts. It’s a bit of a dodge. Dele feels better and worse at the same time.

“A few months ago, I got to thinking about the future. ‘I’m 24,’ I said to myself. ‘A lot of people are settling down, maybe I should settle down too.’ And, well, you know, Victoria,” he says with a smirk. Dele feels his heart sink down into the pit of his stomach. 

“So I went to my grandmother’s house. Because growing up we always said Grandmum’s ring would be mine to give away, you know, when the time was right.” Normally, Dele and Eric tell stories in tandem, Dele dropping banter at all the right moments, eyes meeting and crinkling around the edges. But right now he can barely bring himself to look at Eric. He gulps down a rather large amount of beer, trying to chase away the horrible feeling settling into his chest.

“My grandma is an incredible, but very, very odd woman. And she still keeps that ring in a small box locked in a hidden shelf in her chicken shed out back. She has these fluffy, fluffy white chickens. Figures anyone comes in to rob her, they’ll get pecked to death.” The whole table is hanging on Eric’s every word now. Dele’s picking at his fingernails. 

“She’s quite old, now, though, and her coordination isn’t what it used to be. We go out to the chicken shed, she unlocks the box, takes out the ring, and I just, I saw it coming. She drops the ring!” The table roars with laughter. Dele’s nail slips into his cuticle and it starts to bleed.

“And of course I lunge to catch it and end up falling flat on my face into straw, feed, chicken shit, and god knows what else. Absolutely no idea where the ring is either. Somewhere in the same mess. The chickens aren’t too happy about all this, of course, so they come over to investigate. Pecking me everywhere they can reach.” 

Dele might be miserable but he can’t help cracking a smile at the image of Eric, covered in chicken shit and straw, rooting around for his grandmother’s ring while being attacked by fluffy white chickens.

“Did you find the ring?” asks Eriksen breathlessly, wiping a tear from his eye. 

“Yeah, I got it, it took some time. Grandmum yelling at me the whole time, of course. As if I needed that along with the chickens.” A brief lull falls over the table. For a second, Dele thinks his behavior might have gone unnoticed. But he’s not so lucky. 

“You’re quiet tonight, Delboy,” says Lamela.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?” chimes in Eriksen. 

Dele chews the inside of his lip nervously. He knows he’s been quiet, he just doesn’t have anything to contribute to all the stories about wives and girlfriends and love. Not any good ones, anyway. And the thought of Dier proposing to his girlfriend makes him sick to his stomach, even if it was a good story. 

“Ah, don’t be harsh lads, surely Dele’s already heard this story, haven’t you” says Jan, glancing at Dele in a manner Dele doesn’t care to analyze. Still, he’s enormously grateful for such an easy way out.

“Yeah,” lies Dele, avoiding Eric’s eye. “Great one, isn’t it?”

“It was a great story for sure. Dier, the real question is, when will you be proposing?” asks Jan.

Eric flushes. “I didn’t mean I was-“ he breaks off. “I mean it was just in case, for you know, when the time comes.”

“Getting cold feet, eh?” asks Lamela. 

Eric does that nervous laugh again and the table descends into silence.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to get going,” says Jan, checking his gleaming silver watch. The others murmur in agreement. Dele breaths out a sigh of relief. That was _so awkward_. He really hopes no one thought much of it. But two whole hours, near-drunk in Eric’s presence he’s surprised he didn’t slip up worse. He’s just got to get out of there before-

He feels a hand on his arm. “Do you want to get a bite to eat?” Eric says. “Just you and me?”

Dele freezes, tipsy mind racing like a lopsided cart. Surely this is just a casual meal between friends? Eric can’t possibly be asking him on a date _. That would be wishful thinking,_ his brain supplies. No, maybe Eric’s found out about Barcelona. Maybe sending Eric after Dele is one of Poch’s plays to get him to stay. It’s either a situation he wants but can’t have, or one he desperately wants to avoid.

“Sorry Eric, I’m already late. Said I’d meet some friends for drinks across town.” He doesn’t expect Eric to look so disappointed. Dele instantly regrets his decision to lie. He’d kill to spend that time alone with Eric.

“Ah, next time, mate, next time,” and he leaves.

 

 

Back home, Dele waits for yesterday’s leftovers to heat up in the microwave. He’s bent over the counter, forehead dejectedly resting on his arms crossed in front of him.

“No dinner plans?” Dele jumps. He hadn’t heard his brother come into the kitchen behind him. “I thought you were out for team drinks.”

“Eric asked. I said I had plans.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Why? I thought you were going to talk to him.”

Dele curses himself. Why’d he have to mention Eric? Why didn’t he just lie? “I’m just- not ready yet,” he says lamely.

“You don’t want to wait too long. You’d want him to tell you first if your situations were reversed.”

Dele says nothing but rolls his eyes in response. If their situations were reversed. It’s a good point, and one Dele doesn’t have an answer to. Especially since that’s not the whole reason Dele didn’t go.

“Dele, is that the- sorry if I’m prying but, is that the only reason you didn’t go?” Dele doesn’t like the look on Harry’s face. It’s too tentative, too full of concern. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he says, defensively. 

“Well,” he pauses, picking up an empty glass from the counter, inspecting the rim. “You could’ve gone to dinner with him and not talked about it.”

“Maybe he’s already heard,” the microwave beeps, and Dele busies himself by taking out his food and dumping it out of the container onto a plate. Harry’s still staring at him skeptically.

“Maybe I just didn’t feel like being around people tonight.” There’s an edge in his voice and he hates it. He knows Harry’s going to think it’s aimed at him, that he doesn’t want his company. In reality, Dele doesn’t mind the company, he just minds the questioning. 

“Jeez Del,” says Harry, setting the glass back down on the counter. He holds up his hands and backs out of the kitchen. He still has that suspicious look on his face. Dele’s stomach turns over. He hates treating Harry like this, but he just can’t bring himself to spill just yet.

Dele opens a cabinet and takes down a bottle of whiskey gathering dust on the top shelf. He pours a much-too-generous helping into the glass Harry left on the table. He swills the glass, and then drains half of it, thinking, a _couple more of these and I’ll be brave enough to tell both of them the truth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post. I accidentally lost some of the later chapters I had planned out and got angry and didn't want to finish chapter 2.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a confession in this one.

There are five minutes until training and Dele’s still standing at his locker, picking at the cockerel on his jacket. It’s been two weeks since Barcelona made contact with Dele. Two weeks since Eric asked him whether he’d ever leave Tottenham. Two weeks since Dele lied and said no. He still has no idea what he’s going to do about the offer. He still has no idea what he’s going to do about Eric.

He’s only seen Eric outside of training once since then, when they went out for team drinks. This is easily the longest they’ve ever gone without spending time together, and it’s killing Dele. Dele’s not really surprised, because Victoria’s been in town. Whenever she’s here, Eric drops him, morphs into a budding family man Dele barely recognizes. He’d never get away with avoiding Eric for this long if she weren’t around.

“Drinks again today, where should we go? Last time was a little too crowded,” Eric says, grabbing his elbow and leading him towards the door.

“Victoria gone then?” asks Dele, trying to keep the awkwardness out of his voice.

Eric makes a funny face. “What? Yeah, yeah, she left this morning.” 

“Cool,” Dele says lamely. It’s a fight not to let out a sigh of relief. He wants to see Eric so bad. He figures that being in a group is the perfect opportunity to get close without risking Eric saying something about Barcelona, or being tempted to cross the line.

“Anyway, where should we go?” says Eric, jostling Dele’s shoulder. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I liked this little lounge I went to a few months back, The Lafayette, I think it was called,” offers Dele, aiming for nonchalant. He’s secretly excited to pick, to show the team how much better he is at these things than Eric. 

“What’s it like?”

“They have like, fancy cocktails and such. And a roof.” Dele hopes that sounds impressive. 

“Sounds like a winner to me, Delboy,” he says, grinning and punching Dele in the arm. Dele feels a little thrill of excitement at Eric’s approval. He watches Eric run off, chatting with the other members of the team, hair glinting in the sun.

 

Training is grueling, mostly fitness work. Dele doesn’t mind though, a good, hard conditioning session is the perfect time to do some thinking. Poch has a group of them sprinting from goal line to goal line, with some complicated sequence of instructions. Eric’s not in Dele’s group, and Dele doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad. He falls into a pattern behind Son, who is slightly faster than him.

Dele lets his mind wander. On one hand, Barcelona is all Dele’s ever wanted. On the other, how could he leave Spurs? How could he leave Eric? Moving to Barcelona would mean leaving everyone he’s ever met, moving to a new country with a totally different culture. Dele’s pretty sure he’d be fine, but he doesn’t know for sure because no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t _fucking picture it._ Part of him thinks that since he can’t picture it, he shouldn’t do it. But the other part of him would be bitterly disappointed at passing up that chance.

He wishes he could talk to Eric about this. After all, he’s supposed to be Dele’s best friend. But it’s complicated. It’s complicated because he and Eric are in the same profession, and this move is any footballer’s dream. It’s complicated because they’re best friends. And most of all, it’s complicated because of this weird, unacknowledged thing between them. Dele can’t let go of the hope that some day, Eric will break up with his girlfriend. That some day, Dele will say the right thing, and Eric will kiss him. That some far off day, they’ll be together, and it will be comfortable. Dele might have trouble picturing Barcelona, a move entirely within his grasp. But his pie-in-the-sky dreams of Eric? Somehow those feel so close he can almost taste them.

Poch stops them next time they arrive back on the near side of the field, and starts giving instructions for the next drill while they rehydrate. There’s a clap and a yell, and it’s back to work. 

Sprint the touch line, jog the goal line. Dele doesn’t think he can avoid Eric for much longer. He needs to come up with a plan.

_I have an offer from Barcelona,_ he imagines himself saying. No, it wouldn’t do to just blurt it out like that. 

_Eric, I need your help with some career stuff._ He rounds the corner, and breaks into a sprint. _I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately, I’ve had a lot on my mind._

Yeah, that’s better. Eric loves helping people, and the apology will soften him right up. He’s not sure he’s ready to have this conversation tonight. With any luck, Dele can admire from a relatively safe distance at team drinks tonight. The difficult conversation can wait. He watches Eric performing the same sprinting drill on the next field over. His long legs are a blur as he moves down the field, and Dele wonders why he has to be so beautiful.

 

Back in the locker room, Dele watches Harry leave, then Jan, then Christian. It seems like team drinks are falling apart. He looks over at Eric with alarm, preparing himself for disappointment. Eric is incredibly busy doing something in his locker. Toby leaves, then Lamela, then Son. _Why doesn’t he just stop them?_ Dele wonders, chucking his water bottle into his locker. _Maybe no one could make it to drinks?_

But none of his departing teammates are offering up apologies. No I’ll-catch-you-boys-next-times or sorry-I-have-a dates. In fact, Dele hasn’t heard anyone mention anything about going or not going all day. He hasn’t even heard Eric tell anyone about a team outing. He rests his head against his locker. There is no team outing. _I’m a fucking idiot,_ he thinks. 

It’s not that he’s that nervous to spend time alone with Eric. On the contrary, he’s almost morbidly excited. It’s just that it sort of seems to Dele like Eric intentionally tricked him. Maybe Dele had just misunderstood what Eric was asking. But then why would he bring up last time being crowded if it was just going to be them? Why wouldn’t he just ask Dele if he wanted to grab a beer? _He knows you’re avoiding him,_ Dele’s brain supplies. This has to be about Barcelona. Dele can’t think of any other explanation.

Suddenly, Dele feels cornered. He wants to cancel, but he knows he shouldn’t. He remembers the disappointed look Eric gave him when he turned down dinner. He thinks avoiding two gatherings in a row might be suspicious. Plus, now it’ll look like he’s only canceling because he’ll be alone with Eric. He guesses he should just go, let himself be called out for hiding Barcelona, and say his piece.

Dele hangs around his locker awkwardly until everyone’s left except for Eric. “You ready to go, Del?” Eric asks.

“Yeah, um,” he says, and pauses, picking over his words carefully. “I thought this was going to be team drinks again.”

“Nope,” Eric says cheerily. “Never said that!” Dele looks away so Eric can’t see him cringe. “You good to drive? I took a cab this morning.” 

Dele nods, and they climb into his car. He guesses Eric can lie, too.

 

Dele fidgets under Eric’s gaze, chewing a straw, picking his napkin to shreds. They’re sat across from each other, just a little bit too close at a tiny two-person table. Eric’s face is bathed in the glow of an orange heat lamp and the sliver of moonlight filtering in through the ivied trellis overhead. He’s beautiful, but Dele’s too on edge to appreciate it. He’s waiting for Eric to stop, to look him dead in the eye and grill him about Barcelona. 

So far, it hasn’t happened. They’ve filled the awkward silence with mindless chatter about work- Pochettino’s future, the status of the new stadium. Eric’s ordered and downed a whiskey neat, and Dele’s on his second vodka soda. Now Dele’s telling Eric about his escapades at school, and Eric’s choking on some barbecue chicken that’s too spicy. 

“Wimp,” snickers Dele.

“Please, Delboy, I could out-spice you, 9 times out of 10. It’s just this sauce. This is a different spicy.” Dele knows it’s bullshit. Eric really is pathetic when it comes to spicy food. But it’s pointless to fight him, he’ll never back down. 

“I guess I’ll just have to order you another drink to cleanse your delicate palate,” Dele quips. He wonders if he should bring up the potential transfer first, or whether he should just let Eric proceed with whatever his plan was. Instead of making a decision, he just orders them both another round.

Dele’s well on his way to tipsy when he finally starts to relax. Eric’s eyes are as warm as the heat lamp, and maybe talking about it wouldn’t be so bad. Dele’s ignoring whatever Eric’s currently saying, trying to remember whatever he’d come up with at training.

“I like that blonde in your hair. I noticed as soon as you got it,” says Eric, jolting Dele out of his own head. The compliment puts Dele right back on edge. _He’s buttering you up because he’s about to mention Barcelona,_ screams the warning system in Dele’s head.

“Thanks,” Dele tries to hold his voice steady. _It’s just a normal compliment, it doesn’t mean anything,_ Dele repeats to himself. And maybe he’s right, because Eric doesn’t mention Barcelona. He orders yet another round of drinks, even though Dele hasn’t finished his current one. Dele chews his straw to a pulp while silence stretches between them.

The bartender places two martinis down in front of them. Eric picks his up. He looks a little rough around the edges from the alcohol- face gently flushed, hair a bit out of place, accent a little thicker than usual. “Let me tell you a story,” says Eric. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s inappropriate.” 

“Come on, Dier, when has that ever been a concern between us,” says Dele. He’s sure this is a lead in to the Barcelona conversation. He mentally prepares himself. 

“It’s not a good story, Del, if this ever got out…” Eric downs half of his drink. Ok, maybe this whole thing isn’t about Barcelona. 

“I won’t tell,” promises Dele. “But if it’s that bad, wouldn’t it be better not to tell me at all?” He really doesn’t like where this is going. He doesn’t like how nervous Eric looks, or how he downed his martini much too quickly to compensate.

“Back when I was at Sporting,” Eric starts, almost like he didn’t even hear him.

“I’m serious,” Dele cuts in. “The more people you tell, the less control you have,” and Dele would know. It’s what’s holding him back from telling Harry about his feelings for Eric. 

“I met someone,” continues Eric, oblivious to Dele’s discomfort. Dele digs his fingernails into his palm.

“I already had a girlfriend. But… there was a colleague. I don’t want to say who.” He looks like he’s expecting Dele to press him. Dele doesn’t dare. 

“We just, clicked. We started out as friends. Always together at training, in the canteen,” Dele’s mouth falls open. Eric hasn’t specified, but Dele realizes he might be talking about a teammate. 

“Soon, we started spending time together outside of Sporting. It was almost like we’d known each other for our whole lives.” Dele’s somehow hopeful and horrified at the same time. The way Eric acts around Dele has him convinced his feelings are more than platonic. But they’ve never actually discussed his sexuality before. If Eric’s admitting what Dele thinks he is…

“But everyone knew. Everyone could feel the tension in the air when we looked at each other.” Eric might as well have been describing their relationship. Maybe he is. Dele tries to swallow the lump in his throat but his mouth has gone dry. He tries to remind himself it could just be a physio, or some woman who helped Eric with food or kits.

“I-“ Dele tries to speak. His voice cracks. “Dier, you better be describing your girlfriend to me right now.”

Eric _laughs._ Uproarously. “Ah, Dele. Life isn’t that kind. You’ll learn that soon enough.” 

“What happened?” Dele can’t help himself. 

“I was crushed by the guilt. At home, I had this amazing girlfriend, but at Sporting… I couldn’t stay away. It got bad. We uh, slipped.”

Dele simultaneously really wants to know, but really _does not_ want to know what that means. _Please don’t be a cheater,_ he thinks.

“I had some of the best nights of my life,” says Eric softly, and the look on his face as he remembers drives that point home painfully to Dele. “But I couldn’t handle lying to my girl anymore. So I left.”

“You left your girl?” said Dele, failing at keeping the hopefulness out of his voice.

“No, I left Sporting. It was when I went to Everton on loan.” 

Dele’s silent. He’s fascinated and disgusted at the same time. He’d always firmly believed cheating was bad. That if you were inclined to do it, there was probably something else wrong with the relationship. That Eric would keep the girlfriend and run away baffles him. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“We don’t talk anymore. All I have left of that time are pictures,” he says sadly. He looks absolutely broken. “I still keep one in my locker.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dele’s voice is barely a whisper. He’s nearly overcome with sadness for Eric. Disgust, that Eric’s been carrying torn photographs, his mementos of deception, around with him after all this time. Jealousy, because of the nameless Sporting player that shared glances with Eric while Dele was still in school and playing for a League One side. 

“You know why,” says Eric, holding Dele’s gaze. Dele can’t speak, but just widens his eyes.Eric can’t possibly be acknowledging this right now, can he?

“You’re just so easy to talk to,” he continues, and Dele is more than a little relieved. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.” He smiles a sad little smile, staring into the dregs of his martini. 

Dele smiles back, but he’s sure it doesn’t reach his eyes. Eric is too busy examining the bottom of his glass to notice. “Yeah, well, that’s me.” It’s true. Everyone’s always telling him things. He doesn’t know why, it’s not like he’s a great secret keeper.

The waiter puts the the check down in between them. Dele snatches it, just to have something to do with his hands. Besides, he doesn’t want Eric to pay, he’s not sure what that would mean. He rifles through his wallet for some cash, slides it into the clip, and slaps it back down on the table.

 

“Shall we?” Eric nods, and they exit. They walk through the streets, back towards Dele’s car. Dele’s hyper aware of his arm swinging, and how if he swung it in just the right way, his pinkie might brush Eric’s pinky. He glances over, finds Eric looking at him, and quickly glances away. 

“You know what else I like about you?” asks Eric, unprompted. “You’re funny, but sometimes you’re so serious. ” He smiles to the sky. “But that’s not what I like best.” His finger brushes Dele’s, a feather touch.

They’re such generic traits, Dele wonders exactly how drunk Eric must be to think they make good compliments. He’s dreading the next words out of Eric’s mouth. He’s dreading Eric reaching out and grabbing his hand. He’s dreading kissing Eric back, because if Eric presses those lips to his, he knows that’s exactly what he’ll do, girlfriend and all. And Eric might. Hasn’t he just told Dele he’s a cheater?

“Best of all, you’re so passionate,” Eric says softly, eyes wide. Dele’s heart is in his throat. Surely he’s just imagining this. Eric’s pinky slides against his, hooks gently.

“I have an offer from Barcelona,” Dele blurts. He doesn’t mean to. He just needs Eric to shut up right now.

Eric freezes in the middle of the sidewalk and drops his hands to his sides. Dele stops after a few more paces and turns to look. Eric’s looking at him with the blankest expression he’s ever seen, blue eyes shining in the street lamp. Dele’s sweating and his heart is racing but he holds Eric’s gaze. It seems to go on forever. The longer Eric doesn’t speak, the more terrified Dele gets. 

It’s two full minutes before Eric finally exhales loudly, and says, “Wow, Del, that’s- wow.” He runs a hand through his hair and starts walking again. “Good for you!” The words ring in Dele’s ears. They walk in silence for a few more blocks, careful inches separating their hands now. Dele imagines taking out his pocket knife and cutting apart the Barcelona-colored cobwebs strung through the air between them. 

“Hey man, I’m gonna catch this cab,” says Eric suddenly, indicating a vehicle approaching them. Dele lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Yeah, sure, no problem. Get home safe,” he says. Just like that, Eric is gone, and Dele is left standing in the street, wheels spinning. There’s a sharp sting of disappointment through the waves of relief. Dele shoves his hands in his pocket and keeps walking, trying not to think about how the night would have ended if he hadn’t dropped his bomb. 

 

By the time Dele gets to his car, he’s furious. Eric tricked him. _Tricked him._ This wasn’t about Barcelona, and it wasn’t casual drinks. Eric got him out, got drunk, and and dropped _that_ story on him. Talked about his old lover as though it could have been them. Dele doesn’t know how he feels. He doesn’t know if any of what he’s feeling is real. He really, really needs to tell someone, right now, just to know he’s not crazy. And besides, judging by the fact that he’s seeing two steering wheels in front of him, he’s way too drunk to drive.

He dials his phone with alcohol-laden fingers. Harry picks up on the second ring. “Aren’t you on your way home?”

“Not quite,” says Dele, drawing a shaky breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to make these chapters a bit longer otherwise I'll never finish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele spends a lot of time in his own head.

Dele wakes up in a hot, uncomfortable sweat. Pilly cotton sheets are tangled around his ankles,a tacky plaid comforter is stuck to his stomach. It’s still dark out, just enough light filters through the window to illuminate a thick, pale arm thrown across Dele’s chest, and a blond head resting on the pillow next to him.

_Let it be Eric,_ his traitorous, sleepy brain begs. But the surrounding room is unfamiliar and last night’s events are still fresh in his mind. Flirting with a tall stranger in the bathroom. Grinding back against him in the dim lighting of the dance floor. Sloppy kisses in the back of a taxi. Blind pawing in the darkness, both too drunk to really get hard, too keyed-up to pass out. 

It’s not an issue now, of course. Dele’s hard as a rock under the covers, and the stranger is fast asleep. He shakes the freckled shoulder half-hopefully, but there’s no response. Oh well. He rolls his eyes, turns his head to look at the harsh red clock numbers glowing from the bedside table. It’s 5:10 am, late enough to leave.

Dele plucks his anonymous bedfellow’s arm from his chest and gently places it at his side. He slides out from the sheets and dresses as quietly as possible. He doesn’t want any questions, doesn’t want to face that moment of realization, that “hey, aren’t you Dele Alli?” 

He walks through the dark, quiet streets in a light drizzle. He has to admit he feels better after his fun last night. The thought of Eric is much less intoxicating after feeling someone else’s skin under his fingers. Besides, it had been a while, and Premier League footballer or not, he’s pleased that he’s still got it.

It had been Harry’s idea. “ _You need to get out, meet someone new. You can’t just sit around alone, thinking about Eric. Or worse, you can’t sit around with Eric, and hope he’ll make a move._ ” He hadn’t really needed convincing. He always liked a good party, especially when they didn’t have a weekend game. 

Dele passes under a section of lit streetlights, and Eric’s wide blue eyes float before him. He’s still not sure any of what going on with Eric is real. When he’d called Harry from his car after parting ways with Eric, he’d expected only validation. But that’s not what Harry had given. 

_“You’re drunk, you’re imagining things, Del,”_ Harry had said, eyes on the road as they drove. “ _I get that you have a crush on him, but really. He has a serious girlfriend. He’s your best friend. I don’t think anything you’re saying is out of the ordinary.”_

_“But you gotta admit that story was fucked,_ ” Dele had slurred from the passenger seat.

_“It wasn’t his brightest moment, sure, but like I said. You’re his best friend, of course he’s going to tell you about things like that.”_

_“I guess.”_ Harry had a point there. Hadn’t Eric said he was telling him because Dele was so easy to talk to?

_“I mean, whatever, you know him best. You were there. If you say there’s something off…”_ and that was all Harry had allowed. To Dele, that was the smartest thing Harry had said all night. He _had_ been there, and he _did_ know Eric best. Something _was_ off.

Dele finally reaches home at around quarter to six. It’s starting to get light, but Harry isn’t up yet. He crawls into his own bed, exhausted, a little bit hungover, and very thankful there’s no training or game the next day.

 

Dele sleeps until noon, when Harry walks in and flicks the light on. 

“Don’t fuck up your sleep schedule,” he says.

Dele says nothing. He gets out of bed, pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and loafs into the kitchen.

“How was it?” asks Harry. Dele takes coffee from the counter. He starts getting out bread, preparing to make toast.

“Fine,” he responds. “You know, just a drunken night. A bit difficult to insert tab A into slot B.” 

“Feel you, mate.” Dele inserts his toast into the toaster oven and sits down at the kitchen table, rifling through his phone. Harry’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, shuffling from one foot to the other. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

Dele wishes they had training, or a game. He’s only seen Eric briefly since the other night’s drinks. Eric’s nursing some minor knock to the thigh, so he’s been in rehab work, not training regularly with the first team. They’ve exchanged greetings like normal, but nothing deeper. It’s not enough for Dele to tell whether things are going to be weird. Well, he knows he’s not going to be weird, but he can’t vouch for Eric. He refreshes instagram for about the seventeenth time, hoping Eric will post a picture. Any breadcrumb Dele can pounce on to reassure himself that things are normal after Eric’s antics at Drinks and Dele’s confession about Barcelona.

His toast pops, startling him from his thoughts. He smothers it matter-of-factly with butter, then marmalade, hyperaware that Harry’s still standing there watching him. Dele crunches down on the toast, and looks Harry in the eye. _What?_

Harry’s shoulders twitch in the hint of a shrug as he turns and exits the kitchen. 

 

Dele’s meant to do an hour on the assault bike that afternoon. Get the blood flowing. He’s antsy, full of excess energy, so he’s looking forward to it. He has no idea how he’s going to make it through two whole more days before they have training again. He wishes he could go somewhere, but Harry can’t come, he has no idea where Eric is, and it’s too late to plan something anyway.

He mounts the bike and starts the timer, relieved to zone out, relieved to sweat out last night’s excess and the crawling feeling under his skin. Relieved to have an excuse not to talk to Harry.Harry’s words about Eric really unsettled him. Dele’s confident, perhaps too much so. Is it possible he’s actually misimagined Eric’s intent all this time? Part of him hopes he has, that Eric’s just a friend going through a rough time, that he’s not a cheater. The other part of him couldn’t bear the disappointment, and the self-questioning being wrong would bring.

Dele tightens the resistance on the bike, preparing for an interval. Thinking about it now, it all seems borderline. Eric has a girlfriend, a serious girlfriend. But it sure seems like he’s interested. Is Eric really that kind of person? Is _anyone_ really that kind of person? If Dele listens to Harry, assumes Eric is just a normal best friend, and it turns out he’s wrong… Dele does’t really know what would happen, what he’d do.

_Maybe it’s a little bit of both_ , Dele thinks to himself as he the resistance even higher. Maybe Eric is a normal best friend, who also happens to be a little too charmed by Dele. Who wants to be around him a little more than he should. Just because he has a girlfriend doesn’t mean he doesn’t find other people attractive. If that were the case, they’d just have to not act on it. Dele thinks back to what Eric told him the other night and snorts. _Easier said than done._

If it came down to it, what would he do? He undeniably wants Eric; the tall, blonde he bedded the night before was evidence enough. He imagines Eric’s lips on his briefly, then imagines what Harry would say and forces the thought out of his mind. 

And then there’s the question he’s been avoiding- what does this all mean for Barcelona? Dele reaches the apex of his workout, chest heaving and muscles screaming. Barcelona was a great career move. It was also an escape from a sticky situation, and Dele didn’t want to make the decision for the wrong reasons. 

But Eric was clearly a factor. He was the reason Dele even followed up on that initial email in the first place. He hadn’t thought it through at the time, hadn’t thought about how he’d break the news to Eric, or how Eric would act. Now he’s in the middle of it, and he’s totally lost. As a friend and colleague, Eric should understand what the opportunity means to him. But a potential lover might feel differently. Dele doesn’t allow himself to finish that train of thought. He dips his head and kicks his legs harder, ashamed he even thought the words “potential lover.” 

Dele heads into the recovery period, heart rate slowing. He towels off his forehead and gulps down some water, legs still spinning slowly. The workout had eradicated the prickling sensation under his skin, but it wasn’t enough to slow the growing sensation of dread he felt every time he thought about Barcelona or his best friend. 

 

Dele’s sitting on the couch with Harry watching Peaky Blinders. It’s near midnight, and Dele’s considering going to bed when his phone rings. The caller ID flashes up on the screen, too.

Eric Dier is calling.

Harry fixes him with a look. Dele vaults himself off the couch and runs to the kitchen with his phone.

“Yeah?” he says hopefully into the speaker.

“Hey, it’s me,” says Eric, a little breathlessly. Dele’s heart soars, he can’t help it. 

“What’s up?” Dele’s knuckles are white gripping the phone. There’s crowd noise in the background. A bar? Is Dier drunk dialing him?

“I uh, wanted to ask you a question,” says Eric. He sounds a little bit nervous. Dele’s breath hitches. _What’s happening?_ He wanders towards the stairs, wondering if he’ll need to hide from Harry, take the call in his room.

“I’m———-. I’m going to——-“ The call is breaking up. Dele puts a foot on the first stair.

“What? I can’t hear you?”

“I’m at the airport,” yells back Eric.

“Why?” says Dele. “Why are you calling me from the airport?”

“There’s no game, so I was wondering if-” Dele’s heart beats in his ears as Eric pauses. 

“I was wondering if you could give me some advice. We’re going to Ibiza!” says Eric, excitedly. And Dele’s stomach drops and he sits down on the bottom step.

“We?” he says, weakly.

A high-pitched voice cuts through the crowd noise. “Hi Dele!” It’s Victoria. 

“It’s a last minute trip! We never do anything spontaneous like this, and I remembered how much you said you enjoyed it last summer, so,” 

It’s true, Dele did tell Eric how much he loved Ibiza, that he absolutely had to go. Something occurs to him. “Eric, haven’t you been to Ibiza before?”

Eric coughs. “Well, yeah, but we- I wanted your recommendations.” 

“Yeah, sure,” says Dele, scratching at his head. “But I have no idea what you guys want to do. I don’t really know what I can recommend.” Dele spent the whole time clubbing. It wasn’t exactly a couple’s trip.

“We want to do whatever you did!”

“But-“

“We _trust_ you,” Eric emphasizes. Dele chuckles darkly at that, given the circumstances.

“Alright Dier, you got it.” And he launches into a laundry list of every bar he drank at, every hotel he passed out in, every beach he fucked on, wondering what on earth Eric Dier and his perfect girlfriend Victoria would make of it all. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dele hangs up the phone. He’s a bit shellshocked, doesn’t know what to make of what just happened. Eric and Victoria are going to Ibiza. They’re going to spend all weekend in some five-star hotel while Dele’s stuck at home with Harry. Eric’s probably squeezing Victoria’s hand as the plane taxis down the runway, preparing for takeoff. Eric and Victoria _trust_ Dele. There’s no room for Dele in that fantasy.

 

Dele pokes his head back into the living room, where Harry is still watching the TV. “Harry?”

“Everything alright with Eric?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, listen, forget what I said the other night. I think you were right,” he mumbles.

Harry cocks an eyebrow at him. “Right about what?”

“He’s-“ Dele swallows. “Maybe Eric’s not into me, maybe he’s just being a normal friend.”

“Ok, are you sure? You just seemed so…”

“Yeah, no, I’m pretty sure,” says Dele quickly.

“Like I said, you’re the one seeing him every day, if you think—“ starts Harry.

“Forget about it, alright?”

“It’s forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realize that they're drunk in pretty much every chapter. I'm sure professional athletes do not drink this much in real life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele's resolve is hanging by a thread.

Dele spends the rest of the weekend trying not to feel too sorry for himself for nesting on his couch in London, and trying his hardest to bury whatever feelings for Eric he’s developed. Eric and Victoria are in Ibiza. They _trust_ Dele. He repeats it like a mantra: _Eric’s not into me. He’s just my friend._

He forces himself to imagine Eric and Victoria visiting all his favorite places. He imagines his eyes crinkling at her, reaching a hand out across a cozy two-person table at that one Italian restaurant. He imagines them dancing in a crowded club, Eric’s forehead sweaty and eyes dark. He imagines them at the beach- Eric popping a boner while Victoria rubs sunscreen on his back. Ok, maybe that’s not helpful.

Dele’s heart is beating extra fast when he pulls up to training on Monday morning. He tells himself it’s just because he wants to know how Eric will react to his admission about the Barcelona offer. He definitely hadn’t booked that last-minute hair cut for Sunday afternoon just to make sure his blonde is looking extra-fresh for Eric. He just likes looking good. He runs hand over the trim as he steps out of the car. _It’s for me, because I love me,_ he tells himself.

“Dele!” he hears a yell from across the carpark. It’s Eric, tanned and smiley. Dele wonders if he still smells like sunscreen. “Wait up! How was your long weekend?”

“Fine,” says Dele, tight-lipped.

“Did you go anywhere?” Eric’s blue eyes are shining with excitement. That makes Dele feel even worse about spending the weekend on his couch in London. 

“No, Eric, where would I have gone?” Dele doesn’t mean to sound so exasperated, but Eric’s totally failing to read Dele’s resentful mood. It’s like he doesn’t even notice.

“I don’t know, you’re always doing something, jetting off somewhere,” Eric’s almost bursting with energy. _Probably_ _got laid this weekend_ , Dele thinks, bitterly. 

“Not always,” he says, trying desperately to keep the jealousy out of his voice. 

They head into the canteen for breakfast. Eric’s bouncing along next to him, looking at him expectantly. Dele knows what Eric wants him to ask. And because he has to admit he’s genuinely curious, he obliges. 

“Oh, how was Ibiza?” Dele pretends like the question just occurred to him.

“Oh! Great!” Eric says, like he hasn’t been dying for Dele to ask. There’s a far-off look on his face. _Yep, he definitely got laid,_ thinks Dele. 

“When we sit I’ll show you all the pictures.” Dele doesn’t know if he wants to see pictures, but he guesses he has no choice.

Dele shovels porridge into his face while Eric lets his get cold. He swipes through picture after picture on his phone. Hidden beaches, museums, local-looking restaurants. Victoria smiling wide in every shot. He doesn’t recognize any of it, and he realizes with a pang that Eric didn’t follow any of his suggestions at all. 

“What about this beach, Del? You know this beach?” says Eric, swiping through yet another sequence of beach scenes with a bikini-clad Victoria in the foreground.

“No, man, I’ve never been to that one, either,” mumbles Dele. Eric’s face falls. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Eric, I’m sure.” Dele’s patience is wearing thin.

“What about-“

“Eric, look. I’ve been to Ibiza like twice,” Dele snaps. “I did the usual touristy things. I was drunk the whole time, I barely remember any of it.”

“Ok mate, I just thought- I mean, you just seemed like you really liked it,” Eric looks vaguely surprised at Dele’s attitude. Dele doesn’t feel bad, it’s Eric who’s being oblivious.

“I was 20, all I did was drink and fuck. Of course I liked it.” Dele picks up his empty breakfast dishes forcefully, and they rattle as he walks away.

He takes deep breaths, trying to still his anger before he has to talk to anyone else. He can’t train like this—he’ll injure someone, and Poch will have a fit. Dele leans against his locker, avoiding several nods from his teammates. He counts to 10, focusing on the air filling his lungs. He knows it’s working because he starts to feel a little guilty for snapping at Eric. 

Dele’s finishing pulling on his training kit when Eric, Jan and Toby wander in. Dele nods at Eric and gives him a small smile. Eric nods back, and busies himself in his locker. Dele’s chest tightens, and he chugs some water hoping the feeling will stop.

 

Dele runs through warm-ups slightly away from his usual place at Eric’s side. He listens to Eric, Harry, and the Belgians laughing and bantering, and wishes he were a part of it. He could just walk over and join them, but he’s stubborn, and he doesn’t want to be the the one to break the silence with Eric. 

“Hey, do you guys want to come around my place later?” Dele can hear Eric saying. “Victoria is out of town and there’s a movie I want to watch. I was thinking of breaking out the wine and cheese and making a night of it.” 

Dele really regrets snapping at Eric about Ibiza now. He’s going to miss out on socializing with the team just because he’s jealous that Eric had a little sun and sex. He thinks about Eric, Jan and Eriksen buried in an intellectual conversation, and he suddenly feels inadequate. I _’m not jealous_ , he tells himself, stretching out his left hamstring.

“Sounds like fun,” says Harry, “alright if I bring the missus?”

“What’s the movie?” asks Jan. 

“Oh, it’s about some famous Spanish architect. You’d like it.” Dele doubts that. Eric has a penchant for boring movies and horrible cheese.

“I’m in,” says Jan, who apparently doesn’t agree with Dele’s assessment. “You’ll be there, right Del?” he calls over.

Dele’s head snaps up, surprised. He catches Eric’s eye, and finds that it’s hopeful. He imagines Eric, Jan and Eriksen again, but this time he’s there too, making them all laugh. That’s about enough to make Dele cave. 

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Sounds great!” says Dele, and then mentally slaps himself as he remembers he’s supposed to be convincing himself he doesn’t have feelings for Eric. He’s not supposed to drink wine and curl up next to him on his couch in the dark.

_It would be weird to back out now,_ he tells himself. _It’s too late_. Harry, Jan and Christian have already said yes. It’s fine, he’ll just go be social, talk to other people all night. 

“See you all at 8,” says Eric.

 

 

Dele knocks on Eric’s door at 8:30 pm. He hopes enough of their teammates have already arrived that he can pick a nice spot on the couch far, far away from Eric . He’s brought a fancy bottle of wine to make up for his lateness. His mother taught him never to show up empty-handed. 

“Hey Del,” says Eric, holding open the door. Dele nods and holds up the bottle of wine. Their eyes meet, and for a second, Dele feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. He follows Eric into the living room, and comes to an immediate stop.

Fire crackling in the fireplace, lights dim. Plate full of grapes and cheese. Empty wineglasses on the smooth, glass coffee table. Empty, cream colored couches.

“Where is everyone?” He knows he sounds panicked. That’s probably rude, but he doesn’t care.

“Harry canceled, something about the kid being sick. And I guess Christian forgot about date night?” Eric says tentatively.

“Poor guy,” says Dele, forcing out an awkward chuckle. Fuck. 

“Jan said he was coming though.”

Dele nods and chews his lip.

“Well, are you still game to watch this? I know it’s not exactly your style, but I’ve been dying to-“

“No, no, no, we have to watch it! It’ll be great!” Dele says quickly. Eric smiles, and disappears to the kitchen. Dele rubs his hands over his face, suddenly realizing what an evening alone with Eric could means. They haven’t really talked about Barcelona yet, they haven’t talked about anything Eric told him last time they were alone, they haven’t even talked about Dele’s little outburst about Ibiza this morning.

Dele sets the bottle of wine down on the coffee table and sits down heavily in the farthest corner of the couch. He forces himself into the cushions, trying to process everything he’s feeling. There’s pity, that so many of their teammates had ditched. Shame, because he should have seen it coming. Excitement that he gets to spend the next few hours alone in the dark with Eric. Disgust, that he still feels that way, even though he knows Eric probably spent all weekend romancing his girlfriend in Ibiza.

Eric comes back with some weird, geometric stemless wine glasses and a bottle opener. Dele watches his big hands work the cork out, and frustration burns in his chest.

“Cheers,” says Eric, handing him one glass, holding the other out to clink. Dele meets Eric’s eye, and they clink.

Eric returns to his side of the couch and starts the documentary. Dele alternates between sitting on his hands, and sipping his wine, hoping it’ll calm his nerves, still the way his eyes jump over to Eric every few minutes. He tries to pay attention to the TV, but his leg won’t stop shaking and he only hears about every fifth sentence the narrator says. _When’s Jan coming? h_ e thinks for the thousandth time. When the TV clock says 9:00, Dele realizes Jan’s not coming. He’s in this alone.

Slowly, Dele finally starts to relax. He’s on his second glass of wine, and it’s muddling his senses. It’s just enough that he finds himself staring at Eric’s lips more than he’s staring at the boring documentary. The tension hanging in the air feels more enticing than hostile.

Eric makes a comment about the film Dele doesn’t really catch, and they laugh. Dele’s forgotten how nice it was to hear Eric laugh like this. He looks over at Eric, pink cheeks, red lips, and for the first time in a while, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to kiss those lips.

Dele finds he doesn’t care when Eric catches him looking. Instead, he slowly drags his eyes up Eric’s slightly flushed cheeks and meets his eye. Eric grabs the clicker and pauses the film without breaking eye contact.

Dele stares, mesmerized as Eric moistens his lips. “You know,” says Eric carefully, “this lighting is beautiful.” 

Dele does know. Eric’s pale skin is glowing in the firelight. He looks soft and warm and inviting. He takes another gulp of wine. 

“It’s like you were made to sit here,” Eric continues. Dele wonders if he just imagined Eric saying that. He can feel the warmth in his cheeks where Eric’s gaze brushes over them. They sit in silence, for a while, watching each other, Dele’s heart beating out of his chest.

Eric breaks the silence hesitantly. “You know how I’ve been into design lately?”

Dele nods slowly. 

“I’ve been taking drawing classes.”

“You’re taking drawing classes?” He can’t keep his voice from hitching. He had no idea Eric knew how to draw. The thought of Eric’s hands carefully smudging charcoal onto a page is so unbelievably sexy to him.

“Yeah, for a few months now,” says Eric.

“What kinds of things do you draw?” asks Dele, dumbly. That feeling of inadequacy is starting to nudge back into his mind.

“Mostly, you know, the figure, and stuff like that. The human figure,” Eric blushes a deep red, and adds, “in the nude.”

Dele takes an enormous gulp of wine. A little bit dribbles down his chin, and he lifts a sleeve to wipe it off. 

“Hmm,” Eric hums. He holds Dele’s gaze. “Let me draw you. Like that.”

Dele almost chokes again. “You want me to-“

“You can leave your clothes on,” says Eric, quickly. “You don’t have to.”

“Ok,” says Dele. Eric reaches under the coffee table and pulls out a sketchpad and pencil. It briefly occurs to Dele that Eric might have planned this. _This is what friends do, right?_ But even in his head that argument sounds ridiculous. He wonders what Victoria would think of all this, but the fire in Eric’s gaze and his red wine blanket tell him to stop worrying. This is his moment with Eric. Nobody else matters.

“What should I do?” says Dele, breathlessly.

“I don’t know, look at the television.” Dele looks away. The television is paused, but he can just make out his own reflection in the dark screen. He thought he’d see some evidence of the panicked feelings running around his brain, but he looks totally normal. ”Wait no, look at me,” says Eric. “I want to make sure I get your eyes.”

Dele moistens his lips and tries to sit still. The collar of his shirt suddenly feels too tight, and the pillow on his right side feels like a brick. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, and fuzzy. He kind of has to pee. Eric holds the slim, silver pencil in his hand, and lowers it to the page several times. It looks like his hand is shaking, but surely Dele is imagining that. 

Eric closes his eyes and exhales. When he opens them again, he picks out a point on the left side of Dele’s head and starts sketching. Eric sketches and sketches. As he draws, his breath becomes more even. Dele’s doesn’t. 

Dele’s skin is burning under Eric’s gaze. He feels Eric’s eyes on his lips, watches the motion Eric’s hands are making behind the sketch pad. He imagines Eric filling in every crease, every line, every valley. He imagines Eric taking the same care with his mouth. Dele’s own mouth is dry and he can actually hear his heart pounding in his chest. 

Eric looks like he might be frowning at Dele’s sweatshirt, and Dele tugs nervously at the neck.He’s irrationally jealous of every person Eric’s drawn naked in his stupid drawing class. He can’t help it.

“Can I- do you want me to take my shirt off?” he hears himself croak. 

“Yeah, that’ll be- it’ll make a nice drawing,” says Eric stumblingly, softly. Dele stretches the fabric over his head. He hears Eric let out a small sigh, and looks up to find he has the hint of a smile playing across his face. Dele looks at him questioningly.

“Nothing,” says Eric, shaking his head. He turns the page of his sketchbook. Dele’s reclined on the couch, torso exposed and leg crossed over his knee. Dele wonders if this is some sort of fever dream. He wonders what happens next.

For a while, there’s nothing but the scratching of the pencil. Eric has a tiny frown on his face. Dele imagines him trying to perfect the arch of his eyebrow, the curve of his cheek, the grace of his neck. 

Eric’s gaze drops to Dele’s chest, tongue resting in the corner of his mouth. The long strokes of Eric’s pencil have to be the lines of Dele’s pecs, his rib cage. He watches Eric making tiny, delicate circles, again and again. Dele feels blood rush to his cheeks. _He’s drawing my nipples,_ provides a tiny voice in Dele’s head. He almost laughs at the absurdity of the realization. 

He doesn’t though, because this- Eric drawing his naked torso- is probably the most sensual thing he’s ever experienced. Dele feels heat pool in his stomach, and curses himself for wearing such tight jeans tonight. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before Eric notices his arousal. 

Eric starts on Dele’s abs, pencil scratching gently over the peaks and valleys. Dele slowly tries to shift his leg, block his crotch from Eric’s view. Big mistake, the friction of his jeans sends a shiver up his spine, and he feels his abs contract. Dele’s actually hard, like something out of a school nightmare.

Dele keeps his eyes glued on Eric’s, not daring to look away. Every once in a while, Eric shifts his gaze back to Dele’s eyes. When he does, his pencil stills, and Dele’s breath hitches. He thinks he catches Eric’s eyes flick down once or twice, but Eric gives no other indication he’s noticed Dele’s pathetic state. Dele’s skin prickles as Eric’s pencil travels down the page. He’s glad Eric’s done drawing his face because it must be burning. _Please, no lower,_ he prays.

After some of the tensest moments of Dele’s life, Eric sets the sketchpad down. “There, it’s done.” Dele can’t look away from Eric’s blue eyes.

“Can I see it?” breaths Dele.

“Yeah.” Dele doesn’t quite know how, but he stands up, walks over to Eric on the other side of the couch. Dele’s painfully aware he’s still not wearing a shirt. He sits down, and it’s a fight to keep a careful six inches between them.

Eric scoots closer anyway, his leg brushing Dele’s leg. He places the sketchbook on Dele’s lap.

Dele doesn’t think it belongs in a museum or anything, but it’s a good enough drawing. He’s captured the planes of Dele’s face, his chest. Eric used about as much detail on Dele’s lips as he expected. Dele touches his fingers to them and feels his own lips tingle. His eyes travel down, past the lines Eric’s drawn for Dele’s abs, and fixes on perfectly shaded cutlines disappearing into a bulge Dele’s tight jeans. And he feels his face flush when he realizes Eric’s been aware of his erection the whole time.

He looks at the sketchbook, looks back up at Eric. Their eyes meet. Dele’s breathing heavily. For a split second, he really thinks it’s going to happen. That his resolve is finally going to crack and he’s going to close that distance, give in to the thick tension in the air. 

But then Eric’s phone rings sharply, and the moment shatters. Dele sits back and exhales.

Eric looks at his phone and pulls a face. 

“Who is it?” asks Dele.

“No one,” says Eric, silencing it, shoving it back in his pocket. Dele realizes a split second too late that the name had also flashed up on the TV, but it disappeared when Eric declined the call.

An awkward silence settles, souring the tension in the air.

“Do you want to keep it?” says Eric, doing nothing to dispel the mood. 

Dele snorts. Does he want a pencil drawing of the most embarrassing boner he’s had since he was a teenager? 

Eric gives him a look full of hurt, and he’s already pulling the sketchbook away. Dele panics. “Of course I want it!” he says, snorting again for extra effect. He kicks himself mentally, because he really doesn’t.

“You do? Really?” Eric’s eyes light up. Something in his heart softens. 

“Sure, I mean, yeah, I do.” Eric starts carefully tearing the sheet out of the book.

But then Eric’s phone rings again. In the same moment, Dele’s eyes flash to the screen, and Eric’s hand slips. The paper tears, cutting Dele’s legs completely off. It’s Victoria calling. 

Dele looks back to Eric guiltily. Eric meets his eye for a split second, then looks away. He bows his head, silences his phone again. Dele stares at the drawing, torn _right in the crotch._ There's a strange irony to that and it's almost too much for Dele to bear. He gets to his feet, and Eric doesn’t stop him.

“I should go,” he says. He swipes his shirt from the other side of the couch, and only fumbles slightly as he pulls it on over his head.

“Great having you Del! We should do this again sometime!” says Eric. His voice sounds too bright to Dele, too shiny.

“Yeah, for sure! See you soon mate.” And Dele grabs his coat, hurries outside as fast as he can.

 

 

Dele sits in his car taking deep breaths. He was totally unprepared for what just happened- Eric’s eyes on his body in that way, the sound of his pencil, how close they came to kissing. He’s totally undone by it. He can’t take his mind off the drawing Eric had made- Eric had seen his arousal and copied it to the page. He has no clue how to process any of it. He smacks his steering wheel in frustration and jumps when the horn beeps. He briefly wonders if Eric heard it, but then he figures that even if he did, it’s probably the least embarrassing thing he’s done tonight.

Dele leans his head against the steering wheel more gently this time, wondering with a heavy heart if Eric’s inside talking to Victoria now, wondering what he’s saying. 

One of the pictures Eric showed him from Ibiza flashes in his mind, a beach shot with Victoria in a bikini pressed into Eric’s bare torso, and he feels sick. He leans outside and retches onto Eric’s driveway. He wipes his mouth, shuts the door, and his phone beeps.

_You were a great model. We should do it again sometime ;)_

Dele chucks his phone into the back of his car like it burned him, and speeds away with his heart in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will 100% for sure be the weirdest chapter of this entire work. If it wasn't your cup of tea, I hope you stick with me for the rest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of feelings, and a big decision.

Dele’s still worked up when he pulls back into his own driveway. His hands are shaking, he’s still embarrassingly hard, and all he can think is _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck,_ like some sort of chaotic drumline. He needs a cold shower, like right now. He cuts the gas, flips his car keys, and hustles inside.

He doesn’t stop to say hi to Harry, just runs upstairs to his room. He sheds his shirt, wiggles out of his stupid, tight jeans and boxers and flips on the water in the shower. He stands there, letting the cold water run over him. It’s not fair, what he felt with Eric. What they shared. It was so intimate, sitting in the dim light, watching Eric as Eric watched him. Eric’s eyes burning over his skin, and his face just inches away, looking like he might want to kiss Dele. Victoria’s phone call had been a punch in the gut, a blaring warning siren. None of it makes any sense—Eric feels painfully close, but he’s still so unavailable.

And then there’s Eric’s text. Dele can’t stop thinking about it, but he can’t bring himself to respond.

_You were a great model. We should do it again sometime ;)_

_We should,_ Dele thinks to himself, longingly. And maybe next time they won’t be interrupted. Maybe next time Eric will close that tiny gap separating their lips, and Dele will reach his hand over, slide it up Eric’s muscular thigh, across his hipbones, the down the trail of fuzz leading into Eric’s waistband…

He shakes his head, trying to banish the thought, cold water droplets pinging around the shower. _Why do I feel like this?_ he wonders. Dele rests his forehead against the wall, and closes his eyes in frustration, trying to will away his erection and the sweet ache for Eric that’s settled in his chest. 

It doesn’t work, nor does he really expect it to- he’s been hard on and off for the better part of several hours. Dele turns up the heat of the water and drops a hand between his legs. He’ll just get it over with, hopefully without really thinking about Eric. Maybe then he’ll stop having all these soft, intimate feelings he’s terrified to put a name to. He tries to jerk himself quickly, matter-of-factly, but the only thing on his mind is the careful attention Eric paid to each of his nipples, and what Eric would do with his fingers, or his tongue. He wants Eric so bad, and he hates it. He’s leaning into his own touch now, teeth snagging his bottom lip. He imagines it’s Eric’s thumb rubbing over his tip, and that’s literally all it takes before he comes all over the shower wall with an un-stifled moan he hopes to god Harry didn’t hear.

He finishes showering in a warm, comfortable haze, dries himself off, and crawls into bed. It’s a minute before he catches himself imagining Eric curled up behind him, spooning him. He thought maybe getting off would help, like it had with so many of his overzealous boyhood crushes. But that feeling in his chest is still there, and thoughts of Eric are still chasing themselves around his head. 

He wonders whether Eric was as turned on as he was earlier. He imagines Eric now, lying back on his pillows, dick in hand. Would he moan Dele’s name? Or would he finish silently, business as usual? It’s a mistake to think about, because even though he just spent himself on the shower wall, he feels himself stir. _I’m just horny, right? I just need to get it out of my system and I’ll stop feeling this way,_ he thinks, miserably. And he takes himself in hand again, this time imagining Eric’s doing the same, with Dele’s name on his lips. 

The second orgasm leaves him feeling raw and empty, and just as unsatisfied as the first. But they have a game tomorrow night, and Dele can’t afford to lie awake worrying about his feelings any longer. So he cleans himself off, gets back into bed, and tries not to imagine Eric’s lying next to him.

 

Dele wakes up at nine, but it’s past noon when he finally gets out of bed. He’s not ready to go downstairs, not ready to tell Harry, not ready to have him see the feelings that are surely written all over Dele’s face. Last night gave Dele a taste of his pie-in-the-sky dreams. A glimpse of a shared life with his best friend. And now Dele wants all of it, and he wants Eric to want all of him. He wants Eric to knock softly on his hotel door on international break. To sit on his bed and talk, sharing tentative touches, Dele’s name soft in between Eric’s lips. 

He wants Eric to leave his girlfriend and pick him. He wants to retire together, and travel around the world for months. He wants Eric to show him Portugal, to teach him little Portuguese phrases he’ll surely butcher. And Dele could show him some of the places he’s been, too. He imagines bringing Eric to the Holiday Inn outside of Milton Keynes, and he’s shocked by how much he _doesn’t hate that idea_. Last night made Dele feel like they’d never be bored together. That all of this is possible and just lurking on the other side of the veil.

He gets himself off one more time just thinking about it all, barely even bothering to hope that maybe this time it’ll exorcise his feelings for Eric. He feels like a teenager—ashamed every time he catches himself wondering what Eric’s thinking, wondering if Eric felt that soft intimacy between them as well. He’s had a lot of sex with a lot of people, but this is totally new and unfamiliar. He has to admit the obvious- he’s not just attracted to Eric, he has real feelings for him.

Dele knows if he doesn’t get out of bed right now, he won’t get out of bed to make it to the training center in time for tonight’s game. As much as he doesn’t want to face Eric, this is his job, and he can’t miss a game. So he rolls himself out of bed, drags himself downstairs, opens the fridge, and stares into it listlessly. 

“You ok, mate?”

Dele doesn’t even start at the voice behind him. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“You sure? You came home kind of late and didn’t get out of bed until now, it’s not like you.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine.” Dele’s face flushes as he thinks about what he’s been doing for the last twelve hours. 

“Game today.”

“Yeah, Arsenal.” 

“Where’d you go last night?” asks Harry, with an edge in his voice.

“Hung out with Eric, played some FIFA,” Dele says, aiming for nonchalant. He’s glad he has his back to Harry so Harry doesn’t see the look on his face.

“Oh yeah? How’s that going? Any developments?” Is it just Dele’s imagination, or does Harry sound like he knows too much. He spares a quick glance backward, picking a yogurt from the fridge.

“Fine, fine,” says Dele.

“Still think he’s not into you?”

“He’s not into me, he’s just my friend,” huffs Dele. But this time, he knows for sure it’s a lie. 

Harry buys it anyway. “That’s really good, that’s for the best, Del.” Dele knows he’s right, and that makes it even worse.

That being said, he’s not sure what exactly there is between the two of them. He wonders how Eric is going to act tonight. Will any of their teammates notice? Will the whole world notice? A wild image of Mesut Ozil laughing in his face bubbles into his thoughts. _Where the fuck did that come from?_ He can’t think about this now. He has a game to win.

 

 

It surprises Dele how totally normal Eric is during the warm-up. He’s laughing and joking with Winksy, Jan, Dele, everyone. But he barely has time to be relieved before he hears it- Jan’s guffaw, and loud exclamation.

“Oh please, you’re telling me you can draw? What are you smoking these days?” Jan wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. 

Dele’s already flushed a deep red by the time Eric responds. “I really can,” he swivels, looking Dele dead in the eye. “Just ask Dele. He knows.” There’s no inflection in Eric’s voice, no suggestion of anything that happened. But that look- Dele might as well be back on Eric’s couch without his shirt.

Jan’s looking at him questioningly now too. “It’s true, Del, he can draw?”

Dele coughs slightly, pulling himself together. “Yeah, he’s alright.” And he turns back to his kit, refusing to spend anymore time thinking about what happened.

Dele manages to forget about everything and focus on the game. Eric’s not starting, which helps. By the time he subs on for Sissoko in the 76th minute, Dele’s got enough adrenaline coursing through his veins to make him forget he ever wanted Eric.

They’re up 2-1, but it’s a precarious lead. Arsenal has outplayed them for most of the game, forced them into counterattack. It suits them, and it suits Dele. He thrives on the counterattack. When Eric marches on to the field, he’s barking instructions. _Keep pushing. Get a third. Put the game away._ And Dele is more than happy to oblige. 

It’s Winksy who does it in the end. Dele lofts a perfect ball into the box, straight onto his head. He powerfully heads it past the keeper, and wheels away screaming. Dele runs straight to Winsky, ready to celebrate the fruits of their collaboration. 

But he doesn’t get there first. Eric beats him, Eric wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, Eric lifts him into the air. Dele watches from a few yards away as Harry presses his face into Eric’s neck, whispers something in his ear. He watches Eric break into an easy laugh, watches Winksy’s fingers tease over Eric’s buzzcut.

They break apart, still beaming. Dele’s rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open, jealousy and confusion racing through his veins. He manages to shuffle his feet forward a few times before Winsky jogs over to him, grabs him in a quick hug, and yells, “banging assist, mate!” He watches Eric walk away over Winksy’s shoulder, without even a second look back at Dele.

Dele jogs back to position, heart thudding in his chest. Are Eric and Winksy-? He can’t bring himself to finish that thought. Not after everything he’s admitted to himself in the last 24 hours. Not during a game. 

The ref blows the whistle to restart the game, but Dele’s not ready yet. Dele can’t get his head back in the game. He pinches himself on the arm, hard, and does a few tuck jumps. All he can see is Winksy’s face buried in Eric’s neck, and Eric’s steady hands on the small of his back. 

Arsenal kicks off, and Dele runs around aimlessly. Harry Kane is shooting him concerned looks every few seconds. Dele’s trying, he really is. _God, take me out,_ he thinks, hoping Pochettino will somehow hear his silent pleas.

It only takes a few minutes before Dele reaps the consequences of his distraction. Xhaka crashes into his legs full force, and Dele flies off the ball and lands hard on the ground.

He knows immediately he’s not really hurt, but he stays on the ground anyway. Let Poch take him off with a knock, before anything serious really happens. He holds up a hand, leans over his legs. 

Xhaka taps him on the shoulder in an apology, and he watches black-uniformed medical staff jog quickly across the field. Dele’s swimming in a sea of legs, searching for the one pair he wants. But Eric’s not there. He vaguely points to his hamstring at the nearest black shirt.

Harry’s staring down at him with serious eyes. “Dele, what’s wrong? Hamstring?” 

Dele nods noncommittally. It doesn’t make Harry look any less worried.

Dele’s vaguely surprised to see Jan’s crouching on Dele’s other side. He puts a hand on Dele’s shoulder, while the medical staff works his leg. “It’s not your hamstring, is it? You haven’t been right since that goal,” he says, other hand obscuring his mouth.

Dele gives an abortive shake of the head, and Jan slaps his shoulder gently before he stands up and trots away.

The medical personnel help Dele off the field, to a round of applause. He can see the worry in Pochettino’s eyes, and he feels a moment of guilt.

“Get some ice on this, and try to rest. We’ll assess you tomorrow,” says one of the medics. Dele knows the deal. 

Dele sits on the bench, hood low over his eyes, chewing his lip miserably. The adrenaline is starting to filter out of his body, he’s calming down. He feels so, so stupid. It was clearly just a regular goal celebration. _What, you and Eric have a moment and now no one’s allowed to touch him?_ he berates himself _._ He has no idea when he became this pathetic, just that it needs to stop. He hasn’t put in all this grueling work, hasn’t sacrificed his prime to a football pitch just to throw it away for a few fleeting moments with Eric Dier.

 

Back in the locker room, everyone is celebrating the win, so nobody notices Dele pull out his phone. 

_Sorry for the delay in response. You can agree to Barcelona’s terms. I’m ready._

_Thanks,_ _Dele_

He looks around as he types, watching the smiles on all his teammates faces. There’s a brief sinking feeling when he watches Eric clap Winksy on the back. No, he can’t keep doing this. He touches his thumb to the screen.

_Message sent._

 

 

Harry meets him by the car. _“_ Dele, your hamstring,” says Harry in way of greeting.

“It’s fine,” Dele says.

“But you look like someone just permanently banned you from fortnite,” he says, rooting around in his pockets for the key fob.

“It’s Barcelona, I said yes.” His voice is steady, like he’s not scared out of his mind. Harrystops his search for the fob, breaks out into a huge grin and claps him on the back.

“Dele! That’s- I think that’s the right move. Is that why you’ve been so weird today? How do you feel?” Harry’s smile stills the panic that’s been racing around Dele’s chest for the last hour.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” and he really, really doesn’t. He’s been mulling over the decision for weeks, but under these circumstances it feels like the most impulsive thing he’s ever done. Still, going to Barcelona, it can’t be _bad,_ right?

“Fair enough, I’ll give you today,” Dele nods gratefully. 

“But this is huge! Get in here,” says Harry excitedly. He holds his arms out wide for Dele to hug. 

Dele lets Harry hug him, clap him on the back, mess with his hair.

“Thanks man,” he mutters into Harry’s shoulder.

“Shall we?” Harry says, finally digging the fob out of his pocket and opening the car door.

Dele nods, and gets into the car.

Dele rides in silence. He can just tell from the set of Harry’s face he’s trying to find the words for a question. Dele already knows what it is—it’s the logical question, and the one he’s been asking himself ever since he tapped the send button. They’re almost home when he finally spits it out.

“When are you going to tell Eric?” he says.

“Uh,” he says, pulling out of Harry’s bear hug, looking at the floor. He shrugs pathetically.

Harry’s silent for a minute. “Alright, you do it when you’re ready,” he says, carefully.

Dele rubs a hand over his face, wondering when that’ll ever happen. 

 

Later in the evening, Dele’s lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. Maybe he’ll just never tell Eric, let him find out from the press. He hasn’t even had a proper conversation with Eric since he told Eric about the offer. Eric had vanished into a cab, and the only times he’s seen Eric since then were either in training, or on his couch, under the dim lights, face floating just out of reach.

_It’s a problem for tomorrow,_ Dele decides, trying to relax. But he can’t stop replaying that moment with Eric in his head. He reimagines it so many times, it loses all meaning. The lines of Eric’s face go fuzzy behind his eyes and he can’t quite remember exactly how Eric’s voice sounded when he said Dele’s name. _It’s ok,_ he tells himself, _I’m leaving Spurs soon enough._

And that’s when the full weight of his decision hits him. He feels tears prick behind his eyes, and every goal he’s ever scored for Tottenham floods into his memory, every handshake, every fitness drill Pochettino’s ever forced him through. He always knew he’d leave eventually, but it was always “next season”, or “just a few more years.” Now it’s actually happening.

_“I’m leaving Spurs,_ ” Dele whispers into the darkness. The darkness doesn’t respond. 

He lies awake for hours after that, wondering if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele has a nice evening that ends with a big discovery.

Faking a hamstring injury ends up being the best decision Dele’s ever made. Because now, he doesn’t have to roll up to training and see Eric first thing the next morning. Now, he doesn’t have to look all his other teammates in the eye and suffer the knowledge he’s leaving them.

He sleeps in again until 9, and wakes up feeling refreshed and almost at peace. It surprises him, considering how late into the night he tossed and turned. In the back of Dele’s mind, he’s always known he’d go to Barcelona eventually, if he could. That snap decision after the game? It was just like ripping off a band-aid. 

He eats his usual porridge breakfast, relief overwhelming his thoughts. He hopes it’s because he’s finally made a decision, but a little voice in the back of his mind suggests otherwise- he’s just happy he doesn’t have to face anyone yet. Barcelona might be the right choice, but Dele knows that won’t make leaving any more painful.

At the grounds, Dele lets the trainers bend his leg this way and that, touching, stretching, prodding. 

“Does it hurt here?” 

“No.”

He lets them put him through the paces on the stationary bike, and when he survives that, a fitness test on the grounds. Dele realizes they’re going to clear him immediately, since there’s clearly nothing wrong with him. 

Dele attempts to mentally prepare himself- tomorrow, he’ll be back with the first team. Tomorrow, Dele won’t tell Eric he’s leaving for Barcelona. Tomorrow, he’ll carefully fold every fantasy he’s had for Eric, and wrap each one up neatly, and tuck them away in the back of his memory.

_To share with some young, unsuspecting Catalan after one too many drinks, just like Eric_ , whispers a snide voice in the back of Dele’s head. He folds that up too, and puts it with the rest of his feelings for Eric. He kneads his face, wishing he could tell the trainer where he really hurts.

“You’re clear to return to training as soon as possible,” someone says to Dele. Dele barely hears the man, but he nods resignedly.

 

 

It’s horrible at first. Every single part of it. When he lays eyes on Eric in training the next day, he feels the pull of want deep in his stomach. He also sort feels like he’s going to throw up, pass out, or both. In the end, Eric just nods in acknowledgement, and Dele nods back. 

Of course, it’s not just about Eric. It’s how his heart clenches when he does his handshake with Sonny. It’s how he and Eriksen have always fed off each others’ creativity, and he has no idea what he’ll be like without the Dane. 

It gets slightly easier with each passing day. Dele decides he’s not going to interact with Eric, or any of his teammates for that matter, any more than necessary. He lets Harry book his schedule tight- whatever meetings, dinners, social media events he can. And for a while, it actually works. Eric pretty much leaves Dele alone, much to Dele’s relief and disappointment. In practice, Dele keeps his head down and works harder than he’s ever worked. He doesn’t have to look into anyone’s eyes, doesn’t have to feel like he’s lying, doesn’t have to feel like maybe if he’d just leaned his head forward a little farther _that night_ things would be totally different.

 

 

By the end of the week, he’s tired of only seeing Harry, only having social media engagements. He can tell Harry’s still concerned, and it’s wearing on him. Plus, Dele’s a social person, he just needs a certain amount of interaction. When he checks his phone in the locker room after practice on Friday, he’s actually happy to see a text from Harry canceling their plans-

_Bro, no FIFA tonight. I have a date. Real banger._

_You’ll be ok, won’t you?_

Yes, he will be ok. He’ll be lonely, yeah, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going to do anything stupid. Besides, playing FIFA in his boxers on the couch is not really that different from doing it with Harry. 

“Dele,” it’s Eric, at his side with a hand on his elbow. “What are you doing tonight?”

_Naturally,_ thinks Dele. Out loud, he says, “Oh, you know, playing some FIFA. Hanging.” _Trying not to think about you._

“Can I join?” and Eric looks so hopeful Dele doesn’t know what to do. It’s just FIFA, and there’s no plausible reason for him to say no. And he’s so much lonelier than he originally realized, and particularly starved of Eric’s companionship.

“Sure,” says Dele, hoping the smile on his face looks easier than it feels. 

“Great,” Eric smiles. “I’ll see you at- what time?”

“Eight-thirty,” says Dele listlessly, wondering what horrible decision he’s just made.

 

 

Dele spends most of the hour before Eric comes pacing. He picks up the cushions off his couch and rearranges them in a different order. He takes the pokers out of the holder by the fireplace one by one, puzzling at all the different shapes.

“What are these even for?” he asks out loud. As usual, the house doesn’t answer him. He puts all the pokers back in.

He changes into a sweater and jeans, and then back into sweatpants and a ratty white spurs t-shirt. He switches the shirt out for a nicer black one, and then spends 10 minutes staring at his eyebrows in the mirror.

When the doorbell finally rings, Dele trips over his rug running to the door, doesn’t bother to smooth the disturbed corner. He opens the door. And Eric’s there in all his glory- eyes sparkling, arms looking so good Dele wants to sink his teeth into his bicep. 

“Eric,” he says. Suddenly he wishes he weren’t so out of breath. He counts to ten inside his head. 

“Hi,” Eric says, stepping over the threshold. “Your brother here too?”

“Harry’s got a date,” says Dele. 

“No worries, man, you’re more than enough of a match for me.” There’s no hint of suggestion in his tone, just easy banter. Like nothing every happened between them. _Ok,_ thinks Dele, _I can do that too._

“You game for Chinese? If your bland palate can handle it,” says Dele, aiming for snark.

“Please, Delboy.” Eric shoves him, snorting. “You ordering from the usual place?” Dele’s heart clenches. _That’s right,_ he thinks, _we have a usual place._

“Yeah, thought I would,” he says.

“Then fuck me up. Szechuan chicken, level five spice,” says Eric, smacking his lips. Eric’s bravado makes Dele laugh. 

Eric grabs beers from Dele’s fridge while Dele puts in the order. He knocks down Eric’s spice request to a 3, just like he does every time. It’s so familiar, and he so wants to relax, but last time he let that happen, he’d ended up shirtless on Eric’s couch with a pencil drawing of his dick. Dele brain supplies him with a variety of scenarios, involving FIFA, bets, and varying degrees of nudity. He shakes his head.

But this time, Eric stays carefully on his side of the couch, and so does Dele. They chow into the Chinese food when it arrives, just like old times. Eric is talkative and bubbly, regaling him with stories from Lisbon, stories of his childhood. Dele almost snorts beer out of his nose twice.

Eric’s splayed out on Dele’s couch, plate of food half-eaten in front of him, eyes half closed and totally relaxed. 

“Round of FIFA, mate?” he says, not looking up.

Dele tosses a controller into Eric’s lap, and turns on the display. He realizes with a bit of surprise he’s not seen this side of Eric for months, not since that day by the pool when Dele was first considering offers from Barcelona. He misses this. With a heavy heart, he realizes he’ll miss it even more once he’s in Barcelona.

He’s distracted enough that Eric actually wins. Dele chucks his controller across the couch in mock anger.

“Play me again, Dier, come on,” whines Dele.

“No can do, Del,” snarks Eric, shaking his head. “One game’s all I have in me tonight.”

“Fuck off,” Dele responds, and flips Eric off.

“Ah, let’s go outside, it’s nice out tonight,” says Eric, stretching back into the couch with his eyes closed.

“But-“ Dele mumbles, trying to come up with an excuse. But he really can’t. Eric’s happy, Eric’s having fun, and Dele can’t say no to that.

“Shall we grab a few beers, take them out to the patio?” Eric says.

“Fine,” says Dele.

It _is_ a nice night-air warm like bathwater, with a gentle breeze. Eric cracks open a beer and hands it to Dele. There’s something nostalgic hanging in the air. Dele feels like he’s slipped back in time. It could be two years ago, before all of this. It’s a night like any other night, but it could be the last one.

They sit side by side in Dele’s Adirondack chairs, staring up into the sky. The moon is a crescent boat, floating over a rich blanket of twinkling stars. _Does it look the same in Barcelona?_ wonders Dele.

It’s almost like Eric hears his thoughts, because the next words out of his mouth are, “have you thought anymore about Barcelona, Del?” 

Dele’s heart speeds up a little. He could just open his mouth, say the right words to Eric. _Yes, I’m going._ He knows he should. But he knows it would break everything. He can’t bring himself to lie to Eric’s face, so he goes for a half-truth.

“Yeah, I’ve uh, thought about it,” he pauses, choosing his words. “I think I’m leaning towards it.” Eric’s silence hangs heavy in the gentle air.

“What’s stopping you?” he asks eventually.

_Nothing,_ thinks Dele. “I uh, guess I don’t really know Spanish. New culture and all that. I don’t know,” he trails off. He looks over at Eric, and Eric looks away quickly. Dele realizes he was probably expecting a different answer.

When Eric looks up, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I forget you’re so uncultured, Delboy.” Dele’s heard it before, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t hurt. Especially since Dele totally made up that reason. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

“Come on, Delboy, how many languages do you speak?” says Eric, eyes twinkling.

“Let’s see,” Dele says, pretending to think about it. “English, and uh, Portuguese.” He winks at Eric, who rolls his eyes.

“Please,” Eric snorts. “You don’t know any Portuguese.” 

“I do!” Dele protests.

Eric crosses his arms over his chest and fixes Dele with a stare. “Let’s see what you’ve got then."

“Bom dia!” says Dele, and he does his stupid wave, grinning so wide he thinks his face might split in half at the dimples.

Eric chokes on his beer, laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and Dele thumps him on the back.

“Oh, Del, you don’t even know how funny you are,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye. 

They fall into an easy silence after that. Dele’s warm on the inside, he feels at home. It’s just like one of the fantasies Dele’s so carefully tied away. For a few minutes, he lets his mind wander, lets himself imagine what it would be like if Eric really were his home.

“Del, I should go,” Eric says softly, bringing Dele out of his fantasy. “Victoria’s in London, she’s probably wondering where I am.” That’s right, Eric’s already got a home to go to. One he shares with a nice girl with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a wide smile. One with no place for Dele.

“Right,” says Dele. He thinks he should probably say something else. He’s not sure what, but he’s sure his voice would betray his feelings either way, so he takes a long drink from his beer instead. Resentment is starting to worm its way into warm, cozy feeling in his chest. 

Eric’s standing there, looking at Dele expectantly. _What the fuck do you want from me?_ Dele thinks. That resentment intensifies. He doesn’t want to do a damn thing for Eric.

“You know the way out, yeah?” he ends up saying. It comes out short, but he doesn’t care.

“Uh, yeah,” says Eric, looking slightly taken aback. He stands there for another couple seconds, then turns around, and heads out through Dele’s front yard.

 

 

Dele sits in the chair for a long time, the soft pats of Eric’s retreating feet echoing around his head. He has no idea what Eric is doing. Victoria is here, but Eric spent the whole night with Dele. It’s always been like prying teeth getting Eric to hang out when Victoria’s around. It doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t add up. Dele cracks open another one of the beers Eric brought out, and sips it slowly.

The last several weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster, there’s no denying that. He’s never been more sure of his feelings for Eric, or of Eric’s feelings for him. They’d almost _kissed_ last week. But there was that surprise trip to Ibiza, and Eric’s story about his grandmother’s engagement ring. He’d half-expected Eric to come back from Ibiza with a ring on his finger, or at least a tan-line where one usually lived. If Dele’s being honest, he’s expected something like that ever since he first heard that story. But he’s surreptitiously checked Eric’s left hand every day, and so far there’s been nothing. 

_Is he hiding it from me?_ wonders Dele. 

Maybe it’s because he’s tipsy, but suddenly Dele absolutely has to know. He thinks about calling Harry, but he’s on a date, and he won’t know the answer anyway. He thinks about calling Harry Kane, who always just seems to _know_ these things. But he can’t stand the idea of Harry’s questioning, he can’t stand seeing Harry at training and knowing he knows that Dele doesn’t know about Eric’s relationship status. It makes him a bit dizzy just thinking about it.

He scrolls through his contacts, weighing his options. He immediately scrolls past _Alderweireld, Toby._ He’s honestly a little bit scared of the defender. He hovers over _Eriksen, Christian._ He and Christian have an understanding, a partnership. At least on the field. But there’s a little bit of rivalry there. He thinks of the mischievous glint in Christian’s eyes, the dry humor. There are certain things he really doesn’t want to admit to that man.

_Vertonghen,_ _Jan._ At first, Dele doesn’t want to. He’s perceptive, maybe too much so. He thinks about Jan, crouching next to Dele at the Arsenal game, asking him what was _really_ wrong, and almost keeps scrolling. But if anyone knows the answer, it’ll be him. Besides, Jan is subtle, he’s stoic, and he probably won’t ask Dele any questions.

He hits dial.

Jan picks up on the first ring.

“Hi,” says Dele.

“Dele,” he says, “this is Jan.” He sounds a bit like he thinks Dele’s called him on accident. Dele suddenly feels stupid.

“I know,” says Dele, swallowing hard.

“What’s going on? You don’t usually-”

“Is Dier engaged?” Dele blurts it out all at once.

“Dier? Is he?” Jan sounds vaguely surprised, and so much calmer than Dele. He feels hope prickle in his chest.

“No, I mean, not that I know of. It’s, ever since he told that story, and then the Ibiza trip-“ Dele trails off. He’s rambling now, and he feels really, really stupid for calling.

“He’s not that I know of. I mean, surely he’d tell you though?” says Jan.

“I mean, I guess,” says Dele begrudgingly.

“He has been a bit subdued lately, to be fair. Have you noticed anything?” Jan’s voice is even,sober, totally the opposite of Dele’s.

“No, I mean, he didn’t say anything. And I’ve never seen him wearing a ring or anything,” says Dele. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. He prays to some god to let him get off the phone with at least a shred of dignity remaining.

“Men don’t usually wear engagement rings, Dele,” Jan says dryly. Dele’s hand jerks and the phone slips out of his fingers. _Of course_ traditional Eric wouldn’t wear an engagement ring _._ How had he not realized that?

“Hello?” he hears Jan’s voice float up from the spot his phone landed. Dele stretches his fingers to the ground to reach it.

“Yeah, sorry. Anyway it’s nothing. Just forget I asked.” Dele says quickly.

There’s a pause. “Ok,” says Jan. “Take care, Dele.” There’s a click, and Dele’s left there sitting in the dark.

 

Dele’s heart is racing when he opens Eric’s instagram account, the private one. He’s breathing like he’s just played 90 minutes as he scrolls and scrolls. He’s totally oblivious to the fact that it’s getting cold out, and he’s run out of beer. And sure enough, there it is, a picture that makes Dele’s heart feel like it’s going to shrivel up and fall right out of his chest

It’s from a few weeks before Ibiza, taken at some dimly lit, expensive looking restaurant with circular, white leather booths, and the fancy champagne glasses. Eric hasn’t put a caption-nothing to suggest it was anything other than a meal. But Victoria is wrapped close around Eric’s waist, her hand clutching his hip. And there, on that hand, on fourth finger, is the gleaming opal ring Eric described to them all those weeks ago at team drinks. 

He lets his head fall back against the hard wood of the chair. Dier’s been engaged for weeks, _weeks,_ and Dele’s known nothing about it. He was engaged when he told Dele about his teammate at Sporting. He was engaged when he called Dele and asked for advice about Ibiza. He was engaged during every lingering glance, ever giggle they’d shared. And worst of all, he was engaged that night he told Dele he was made to sit there in front of him, half naked in the firelight. 

Dele’s shivering when he finally drags himself out of the chair. He wanders around the patio aimlessly, collecting the remnants of the evening. Dele chucks the bottles in the trash, one by one. _How did I end up here?_ he thinks. 

Later that night, Dele tries, really tries to get to sleep. But he still doesn’t really know what’s going on, and he’s so tired it. He’s tired of Eric’s whiplash behavior, the lack of information, the way he feels like they’re teetering on the edge of a sword. 

In the dark, Dele makes up his mind: he has to ask Eric, he has to put a name to what’s happening between them, and he hasto put a stop to it for once and all. Dele’s sure it will be horrifying, sure it will hurt. But he’s also sure it’s the right thing to do. The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is the face of the clock, a glaring 4:00 am right in his face. He drifts off wondering how much more sleep he can afford to lose over Eric Dier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said you'd hear from Eric in this chapter. But then I wrote it, and it was about twice as long as I intended, so I split it into two. The next one is already written, so expect to see it tomorrow or the next day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele wants answers, and he gets like one or two.

Dele expects to have to wait weeks before he gets Eric alone again. Victoria’s here, and surely Eric can’t spend two consecutive nights spent away from her. Surely he won’t want to. But Eric makes it easy for him. It’s only twelve hours later, just after training the next day, when he gets his chance.

“Dele!” Eric calls out across the locker room. Dele turns. “I had fun last night. Let’s grab dinner?” 

_Why isn’t he going home to his fucking fiancé?_ Dele’s brain screams, for about the hundredth time. They’re the words he’s planning to say to Eric later, out loud. But he’s not quite mentally prepared, and Toby’s showing Jan something on his phone about six feet away. It’s too soon, too public. So he bites back the question, tries to swallow his confusion and his nerves.

“Ok,” he says instead. They walk out together, into the foggy London evening. Eric chattering away about something Poch said to him in training. Dele’s mired in his own thoughts and doesn’t hear any of it.

He snaps out of it when Eric turns to him in the car park. His eyes are bright, and fixed on Dele’s, but for some reason he can’t quite place, Dele feels like Eric’s staring right through him. “Take me somewhere I’ve never been,” Eric says.

Dele sighs. He really doesn’t need the added stress of trying to please Eric, but he doesn’t have the energy to protest. Especially not given the subject he’s planning to broach over dinner.

“Ok.”

 

 

He has the cab driver take them to a quiet pub he sometimes visits with Harry. It doesn’t have the best food, but there’s no nonsense, and no romance. Dele briefly wonders what the food will do for his diet, but he doesn’t really have the capacity to care.

He orders a veggie burger, just in case. It’s dry and crumbly, but smothered in mayo, something he’s pretty sure he’ll regret eating on the toilet later, or at least when he talks to the food nutritionists in the morning. Eric orders a chicken breast sandwich. Dele eyes it jealously as he swallows _whatever_ that was in his burger, and settles for ribbing him about his boring taste. 

“Classic Dier, with his plain chicken and his romaine lettuce. Probably not going to even eat the roll.”

Eric’s too busy chewing to respond. 

“Is that what you feed to your dogs?” The corner of Eric’s mouth turns up, but he doesn’t laugh. Dele wishes desperately for the bantery, relaxed Eric he’d seen the night before, even though he knows he’s going to ruin it by the end of the night. 

“Could put Cisco on the field in your place with a diet like that,” Dele jibes. It’s stupid, but he’s desperate to get a rise out of Eric, anything. He watches Eric’s eyes freeze over, and immediately knows he’s gone too far. Eric’s fitness these last few months is the touchiest of subjects.

“Eric-“ Dele starts, shame settling uncomfortably in his gut with the veggie burger.

“Have I ever told you about the time my friends and I drove up into the mountains for the weekend?” Eric says, cutting Dele off with a subject change so abrupt he feels like he has whiplash. Dele has heard this story before. Eric and his friends had gone on a weekend trip, and one of them accidentally brought a batch of brownies that had been laced with weed. They spent the entire weekend lying in the grass, high out of their minds. In fact, Dele’s pretty sure he’s heard this story on four separate occasions. But he’s desperate to move on from his gaffe so he shakes his head no.

“Bet you didn’t even know Portugal had mountains, Del,” says Eric. He’s staring off into the past in a way Dele knows too well.

“I didn’t,” says Dele. It’s obviously a total lie, but Dele’s nerves are too shot to defend himself. He’s already compared Eric’s skills on the field to a black lab. He doesn’t need to say anything else he regrets.

Eric launches off on the story, embellishing it even more than the last time Dele heard it. _How can he forget that he’s already shared these things with me?_ thinks Dele absently. He guesses Eric will be talking about the charms of Central Portugal for the next ten minutes. Dele will just nod in all the right places without really paying attention. He might as well not even be there.

Dele spends waiting for Eric to finally stop talking, knowing it’s well past the time he should have brought up Victoria. It’s about fifteen minutes, but it feels like ten years. Finally, Eric pauses to munch on a few french fries. He didn’t eat the bread, and the chicken is half-eaten in front of him. Dele worries that maybe he didn’t like the food, and then he worries it was because he something about Eric’s diet. _It’s not my problem,_ Dele repeats to himself. They sit in silence for a minute, Dele still picking over words in his mind. He draws a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

“Eric,” Dele says. He takes another deep breath, staring at Eric across the table.. “Why don’t you ever go home to your girlfriend?” Dele has to force the words out. As soon as the last word leaves his lips, he feels blood rushing in his ears, heart beating in his throat. _Dele’s actually scared of his answer._

Eric looks down at his half-eaten food, then away from the table. 

“We uh,” he passes a hand over his eyes, pausing for what seems like a lifetime to Dele. “Things aren’t good right now. At home.”

Dele swallows, not trusting himself to speak. _What the hell is he supposed to do with that information?_ It’s like his head is filled with bees, and they’re stopping him from having any coherent thoughts. 

_“_ Sorry, I didn’t know,” he says eventually.

_“_ Nobody knows,” says Eric. “Just Harry Kane. He and his wife let me stay stay there sometimes when things are really bad."

Dele’s dying to know what _really bad_ means. He’s dying to know why Eric went to Harry Kane and not to him. He’s dying to know why Eric didn’t tell him any of this. But he can’t bring himself to ask Eric any of this, because what if Eric still doesn’t want to tell? What if it’s horrible? He rips off a piece of his cocktail napkin and rolls it between his fingers.

“I’ve actually been staying in a hotel since last week,” says Eric, voice heavy. “She’s just in town to talk logistics.”

“But you’re engaged,” Dele whispers, voice dry. He realizes too late Eric never actually told him. But if Eric’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he looks vaguely like he’s been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “For now.” 

Part of Dele is heartbroken for Eric. Part of him is furious. Furious Eric didn’t tell him about his engagement. Furious Eric didn’t even tell him things were bad. But then Dele thinks about all the things he hasn’t told Eric in the last few months, and he realizes he’s just sorry. His own feelings aside, he’s always wanted things to be easy for Eric.

“I’m sorry,” Dele says out loud, eventually.

Eric’s phone buzzes on the table, and Dele tears off another strip from his napkin. For the first time that night, Dele wonders whether Eric might be lying. That’s what cheaters do, right? They lie. 

“It’s ok,” says Eric. “Life’s just like that sometimes.” Eric stares at Dele, corners of his mouth dipping. Dele stares back. He can tell from the heaviness of Eric’s voice that Eric thinks life is like that _all the time._ There aren’t enough words in Dele’s vocabulary, maybe not in the entire English language, to describe how sad that makes him. 

“I just, wish you had told me, man,” he says.

“Well, I’m telling you now.” Eric’s eyes are shining, and Dele’s a little worried he might cry. But instead, he says something that nearly makes Dele spit out the gulp of water he’s just taken.

“I think you already know how I feel about you.” Eric mumbles, eyes fixed on a spot next to his plate.

Dele almost stops breathing, fingers still working his cocktail napkin to shreds, littering the table in front of him with tiny remnants.

“You’re special, Del. That’s why I keep seeking you out,” Eric’s still not making eye contact with him at all, just looking between Dele’s hands, and the pattern of the wood table.

“I’ve tried, but I can’t stay away.” He thinks back to Eric ignoring him during the goal celebration, to his cheery demeanor at practice, to his last-minute trip to Ibiza. “It’s embarrassing,” he adds, laughing a little.

_Is Eric sweating?_ Dele still can’t find his words. He’s too focused on remembering how to breath, on quelling the confusion and panic rising in his chest. He takes a couple more sips of his water, but it doesn’t really help. And Eric irritatingly hasn’t looked at him since he started talking about Dele. 

“If you want me to stop, if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop,” Eric finally looks up, looking more desperate and lonely than Dele’s ever known him to be. Dele’s never been more uncomfortable in his entire life. But he doesn’t know what he wants. He definitely doesn’t want to stop seeing Eric. 

“No! I uh, I like spending time with you,” says Dele. It feels horribly insufficient, and he can’t keep the tremor out of his voice. He feels like he’s going to choke, pretty certain his heart has stopped pumping blood to the rest of his body.

Eric smiles nervously and blushes. “This is going to be so awkward now. I’m sorry Del.” 

It’s an odd look on Eric, and Dele can’t stand it. It’s not right. Eric is confident, flirty. Eric’s actions are always just on the right side of the line. Eric doesn’t sweat as he confesses his feelings for Dele across horrible, diet-friendly pub food. Dele desperately want it to stop, desperately wants to go back to the easy companionship they’d shared just the night before.

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward, Dier,” he says bravely. He wants to grab Eric by the shoulders and shake him until he comes to his senses. He wants to lean across the table and kiss him, drag him back to his bed, and fuck him until he can’t walk. He wants to run out of the restaurant, hop on a plane to Barcelona, and never come back. He does none of these things, just stays in his seat, waiting for Eric to say something.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do if you leave Spurs,” says Eric, quietly. This time Dele actually does spit out his water. Because he _is_ leaving, and now he has no idea how he’s ever going to tell Eric.

“Oh god, this is going to be so awkward,” says Eric again. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t acknowledge Dele’s break in composure. _If it’s so awkward, why do you keep making it worse?_ thinks Dele to himself. He doesn’t think it’s going to be that awkward.

“Hey, look, it’s not going to be awkward. When have you ever known me to be awkward?” he says. Dele just knows if this conversation doesn’t soon, Eric’s going to say something they can’t come back from.

“That’s true,” says Eric, cracking a small smile. And he finally, finally falls silent. 

Dele calls for the check with a shaky hand. He doesn’t even try to hide it from Eric, because Eric’s too busy staring at his massacred sandwich bread with a tiny frown on his face. Dele can’t process what just happened at all. He hadn’t suspected Eric was having relationship trouble, doesn’t know if that even changes anything. 

They pay, and head out into the night. Eric stands there, looking at Dele expectantly. He lets three cabs go by, and Dele thinks he knows exactly what Eric’s waiting for. They’re only a 15 minute walk from Dele’s house. He could so easily take Eric’s hand and lead him home, lead him up the stairs, lead him into his bed. But Dele knows he’s in no place to make that decision right now. Not when Eric’s admission has changed everything. 

“I’m going to walk home. You should get a cab,” says Dele, somewhat regretfully.

“Ah, Dele.” Eric hangs his head, disappointment evident in his body language. Dele chooses to ignore it.

“You’ll tell me the second you decide about Barcelona, right?” says Eric, looking at Dele with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” lies Dele, the certainty of his decision rising like bile in his chest. He feels like the worst person in the world, but Eric seems satisfied with his answer. “Listen, I’ve gotta-“

“Yeah,” says Eric, “see you tomorrow in training.” And Dele walks away, leaving Eric standing on the curb looking after him.

 

 

Dele phones Harry as soon as he’s out of earshot. It rings out, and Dele hangs up and dials him again. He’s on the fourth ring when he remembers Harry’s visiting their parents tonight. He decides to leave a message.

“I went out to dinner with Eric,” he blurts, as soon as there’s a beep. “I think he’s split up with his fiancé, but-“ Dele pauses, trying to find the words. “You know what, never mind. Give me a call when you get this.” 

Dele hangs up the phone. What the fuck is he doing? Eric is basically single, available. Why isn’t he in the back of a cab with Eric? Why isn’t he undressing him in his sad bachelor hotel right now? He pauses over his phone, actually considering calling Eric.

But suddenly his phone buzzes in his hand and Harry’s name lights up the screen. Dele exhales, slides open the call.

“What the hell happened?” Harry says, without lead-up.

“Fuck, I don’t even know where to start,” says Dele.

“Eric and Victoria broke up? Wait, no actually back up, Eric and Victoria are engaged?” says Harry, voice rising several octaves.

“Yeah, I found out from his instagram,” Dele admits. If Harry’s judging him for that, he doesn’t say. “But he says they’re almost split up,” he adds, chewing on his lip, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk.

“Almost?” Dele hates Harry’s tone of voice. It captures all the fears that’ve been running through Dele’s mind all night. That’s the last push he needs. He picks a direction, and starts heading home.

“Yeah, almost.”

“Well, maybe that’s why he’s been so weird lately,” says Harry, reasonably. And it is reasonable, but-

“Right. That’s not all,” says Dele, nervously.

“What?”

“He told me he was into me, sort of,” Dele tries to breath through the words, but he’s pretty sure his voice still shakes.

“What do you mean ‘sort of?’ ” Harry’s voice is incredulous, but short like he’s trying to keep it level.

“Don’t you want to get back to the parents now?” says Dele.

“Dele.”

“He said I was special and that he couldn’t stay away from me,” Dele mumbles, ignoring the expletives Harry drops. “And that he’d stop if it made me uncomfortable.”

“You told him to stop, right?”

Dele doesn’t answer.

“What the fuck, Dele?”

“I know, it’s just, like I told you. I like him. I don’t know if I want him to stop,” he hears Harry groan in frustration at the end of the line, and his anger flares up. “Like you’d do anything different.”

“But there’s obviously a reason you’re not with him right now,” says Harry.

“I guess it’s just that he wouldn’t look at me. Like, he says it’s over but, I don’t know, I have no reason to believe it,” the words rush out before Dele can stop them. He hadn’t really intended on giving Harry this much detail. If he’s going to cave, fall into Eric’s bed in the end (and at the moment, he’s half convinced he is), the last thing he needs is more of Harry’s judgment.

“He’s given you no reason to trust him these last few months, Del. He didn’t even tell you he was engaged.” Harry has that exactly right, and Dele hates it.

“I think that’s what bothers me the most, actually,” says Dele carefully. “Like, for a long time I thought we were friends, really friends. But now that he’s said this, I can’t help but wonder if, like,” Dele’s voice falters. “I mean, like maybe he's always felt this way and he only wanted to hang out because, I don’t know, he thought I was pretty?”

“Dele,” Harry says, voice full of sympathy. He waits for Harry to make some sort of rebuttal, but he doesn’t say anything, so Dele keeps going.

“I just, I always thought it was weird and all.” Dele’s full on babbling now, and he doesn’t care. “All of Eric’s other friends are so intellectual. Like Jan, Christian. Always wondered what he needed me for.”

“Dele, no,” says Harry. “I’ve seen him around you for more than 5 seconds. He was your best friend, I’m sure of it.” Harry’s voice is full of conviction, but the word ‘ _was’_ rings hollowly in Dele’s ears.

“Yeah, or maybe I’m just another pretty face,” his teeth find a little piece of skin on his lips, and he pulls, drawing blood.

“Dele. Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry snaps. His voice is tinny and harsh over the phone.

“Anyway, you’re probably proud that I let him go back to his hotel or whatever,” says Dele, bitterly. He’s almost home now, too far away to change his mind. It’d feel like admitting too much.

“I am proud of you,” says Harry. “And I don’t think you should see him, at least not until you’re sure they’re actually broken up.”

Dele’s suddenly so tired, aware of all the sleep he’s lost in the last weeks. He fumbles the key as he slides it into the lock on his front door.

“Harry, tell mom I said hi, will you?” Dele says, wearily, desperately wanting out of this conversation.

“Sure mate, you good?”

“I’m good,” he says, even though he’s not. He turns the key and swings open the door. The cool air is a revelation on his face.

“Oh and one more thing,” Dele says, before he hangs up the phone. “I told you so.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Eric is a bit of a mess. He'll show more of his hand in Chapter 9.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dele has a rough couple of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright friends, here we are. I’m sorry it’s taken me such a long time to write- it’s about to get a bit more real. If that’s not what you’re here for, might I suggest you check out literally any of my other fics.

It’s 6:50 in the morning and Dele’s hiding. He’s sitting paralyzed in his car in the furthest corner of the most remote carpark at Hotspur Way. In ten minutes, he has to walk across the parking lot, up the sidewalk, and through the doors. Today is the day he tells Pochettino he’s leaving for Barcelona, and he has _no idea_ what’s going to happen.

He thinks, _hopes,_ that Pochettino will understand. That he’ll confirm what Dele already knows- moving to Barcelona is the best thing for his career. He’ll wish Dele well, offer his support in telling the rest of the team. Dele’s considered his anger, and found he doesn’t really care. He respects Pochettino, but at this point, he just wants to go. He wants it over and done with, If he never finds himself sitting in his car, resting his head on the steering wheel, questioning his entire existence over Barcelona and Eric, it’ll be too soon. He needs a fresh start, desperately. 

It’s good he has to do this today, because now he doesn’t have to think about what’s going to happen when locks eyes with Eric. He knows he’s in deep there, now. Not that he wasn’t before, but now that he knows about Eric’s broken relationship, knows that Eric’s been seeking him out, that Eric thinks he’s _special_. Before, Dele could reasonably argue all of this was only happening in his head. Now it’s different, it’s real. 

He’s half convinced the second he sees those blue eyes, it’ll be over. Everyone will know- Dele’s feelings etched plain across his face for all to see. _It doesn’t matter,_ he’d decided, _I’m leaving anyway._ But he still doesn’t fancy being known forever as the guy who fucked his teammate, or the whispers that would follow him everywhere he goes.

But first, he has to deal with Pochettino. Without Pochettino’s blessing, he’s not going anywhere. He hoists himself out of the car and steels himself for the meeting. He can feel his heart beating in his throat, the sweat prickling the back of his neck. He’s already picked his cuticles to shreds, so he rubs his thumb and forefinger together anxiously, chewing on his lip. 

It’s still before 7:00, but every time he rounds a corner, he’s certain he’s going to see Eric. Certain Eric’s going to get in his head right before it matters most. _He’s obviously already in your head,_ says a little voice. He shuts his eyes as he rounds the next corner, and almost walks into a wall. 

Pochettino’s door is slightly open, waiting for Dele. The unforgiving wood stings his knuckles when he raps on it, swallowing a shaky breath.

“Come in, Dele,” Pochettino’s voice floats out.

He’s sitting at his desk, glasses pushed up his nose. Dele didn’t even know he wore glasses. Bizarrely that’s the thought that gets stuck in his brain, sticks in his throat. When he finally dislodges his tongue, that’s all that comes out.

“You wear glasses?”

Pochettino looks up at him, hint of a smile on his lips.

“I’m not as young as I used to be, Dele.” His eyes are mischevious, daring Dele to push back.

“Of course you are, boss,” says Dele. He knows it doesn’t make any sense. Pochettino doesn’t even grace that with a response, just stares back at him expectantly.

There’s a large, modern clock hanging on the wall. A long black box and a plain silver face, smart lines etched carefully at the hours. The silver pendulum swings smoothly, ticking off each second it takes for Dele to find the courage to open his mouth. _I’ll tell him in fifteen more ticks,_ Dele thinks, and takes a shaky breath. But on the fifteenth tick, Dele exhales without making a sound. Fifteen is Eric’s number. 

“Dele, I know you didn’t come here to watch my clock,” Pochettino says eventually.

It’s two more inhales before Dele pries his mouth open. “Boss,” he starts. “I-“ He clenches and unclenches his fist.

Dele forces himself to look at Pochettino. His eyes are warm, understanding, and unless Dele’s imagining it, he’s nodding encouragingly. _He already knows,_ Dele realizes. And that’s what gives him the courage to go on.

“I’ve had an offer from Barcelona,” Dele says, closing his eyes. It comes out stronger than Dele expected. He feels raw and free, like he’s just ripped a bandaid off his entire body. He lets a slow breath out and opens his eyes before he continues.

“My time at Tottenham, with you, I- you took a chance on me. And,” he pauses, searching for the words. He’d rehearsed this, but he can't remember a word of what he’d planned to say.

“I can’t even tell you how much that’s meant to me. I-“ He trails off, lost in the enormity of what he’s doing. 

“Barcelona is a big club,” says Pochettino, evenly. “A European dream. You must go, of course.”

“I will, boss, I-“ He’s going to say more, but Pochettino’s standing up and coming around the desk, toward him.

“Levy will accept, you know this. They’ll pay big money, unbelievable money for you,” he smiles warmly, “you know this, of course.” Pochettino’s eyes are already watery, and Dele’s chest aches. He nods, unable to speak.

“I’m proud of you, Dele.” Pochettino's right in front of him now, and Dele moves to shake his hand. But instead he pulls him into a massive bear hug. “I’m so proud,” he whispers into Dele’s shoulder. 

Dele’s pretty sure Pochettino is openly crying, and that’s horrible because Dele’s certainly going to cry too. There’s a thick, painful lump in his throat and he tries to swallow around it and say something back but there are already tears leaking out of his eyes. He dabs at his tears with the back of his sleeve, but Pochettino’s hugging him too tightly so in the end he just lets them fall.

Pochettino stops him right before he turns to go. “Dele,” he says, “You’re Spurs all the way through. You’re welcome here. If the time is ever right.”

A noise that might have been a sob escapes Dele’s throat as leaves. Because it’s Pochettino, he’s not even embarrassed. He expects the tears to stop once he’s out the door, but they don’t. Instead they just morph into tears of relief. _Everything is ok_ , _Pochettino approves, and he’s welcomed Dele back to Spurs any time, no questions asked_. 

Dele dimly realizes that staff are going to start arriving to prepare for training soon. So he ducks into an empty meeting room and slides down the wall to a seat. He lets the tears seep into his sleeves until his breathing evens out and he starts to get thirsty. The only thing left for him to do is leave. And the only thing left to do before he does that is wait. 

 

 

Dele stands at his locker, still shaky with relief, heart is still hammering in his chest. The back of his neck won’t stop prickling, and he’s half-convinced everyone knows he’s leaving, half-convinced that Eric’s just walked in, that he’s padding across the floor to Dele in a way that makes it painfully obvious to their teammates what’s going on.

But nobody knows Dele is leaving, and Eric isn’t there. Eric’s still not there when Dele reluctantly clicks across the floor towards the door to the grounds.

“He’s ill,” says Jan, when he catches Dele glancing at Eric’s locker for the fiftieth time. “Something he ate last night.” 

“I- something he ate? I was-“ he’s about to tell Jan that he was _with_ Eric last night, that Eric hadn’t seemed sick, but then he catches a look in Jan’s eye, just a little twitch of his cheek that gives Dele pause. “Right, thanks.”

He’s got to be imagining that, right? Jan can’t possibly know. He shakes his head as he walks away. He can’t help but be a bit put out Eric hasn’t told him. He’s really not sure why, it just seems like something he should have known. Like what if it was the food, and Dele had fallen ill as well? It jars Dele, and suddenly he’s barely thinking about the conversation he just had with Pochettino at all. 

He runs through drills that day on rote. All he can hear is Eric’s strained voice in his head, but all he sees is Pochettino’s proud, watery eyes.

_I think you already know how I feel about you._

Technically speaking, Eric hadn’t confessed anything. What does Dele know, really? Not much. Eric says his relationship is dead, over. If that’s true, then he desperately needs a friend. And hadn’t Eric once told Dele what a good listener he was?

_You’re so easy to talk to._

Eric had said that, and Dele knows it’s true. Everyone says it. 

_You’re special, Dele._

Everyone says that, too. Pochettino had basically said it to him today.

_You’re Spurs through and through._

Was Eric really that out of line?

_I’ve tried, but I can’t stay away._

Yeah, no, he still can’t perform the mental gymnastics necessary to convince himself this isn’t happening. There’s no reason to try to stay away from your best friend. Eric might have talked around the subject a bit, but the words left unsaid paint a clear enough picture, as clear as the drawing Eric had made of Dele sitting on the couch. And much like the drawing, Dele doesn’t know whether he wants to smash that picture, or whether he wants to cherish it forever.

It’s ridiculous that he’s still trying to convince himself it’s all in his head. It’s been months since he first realized something was up with Eric. If he’d maybe acknowledged it sooner, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. But surely he’s not going to do anything. He’s still with Victoria. He said it was ending. Surely they’ll just stay in this vague state of limbo until Dele’s gone and it’s too late. 

_Don’t be ridiculous, he as good as said it,_ Dele tells himself.

_Maybe after it’s over…?_ Dele lets himself consider it for the briefest of moments. Lying in some imaginary bed that lives in Barcelona, Skyping Eric late into the night. Finally deciding to take the relationship to the next step, like a dam breaking. Water, flooding over the edge. Eric, flying to meet him. Finally kissing him, finally pressing his hands into Dele’s skin. Finally together, just the two of them, forever. 

“Dele,” Pochettino calls, shaking him from his reverie. Dele trots over expectantly. He’s been mechanically passing the ball all day, just the bare minimum, but he knows Pochettino can tell he’s been off.

“Boss?”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day? We had a big talk this morning, and you are distracted.”

“Gaffer, I promise I can play, I want to be here, I-“

“Dele, go home. Buy yourself a soda, you deserve it.” He pats Dele on the shoulder in a manner so fatherly, Dele suddenly feels like crying. “And Dele, you need to think about how you’re going to tell the rest of your teammates.”

 

 

Dele’s exhausted by the time he gets home. His mind is back on Pochettino, Barcelona, and telling the rest of the team. For once, he’s not thinking about Eric, he’s not thinking anything of the sort. It doesn’t even cross his mind to worry when his phone buzzes, and Eric’s name flashes across the screen. 

_Hey, I was wondering if now that you know how I feel, you might be interested in going on a date with me?_

_:)_

Dele panics lets his phone slip through his fingers. He’s just pulled into his own driveway, and the car is still running. He sits frozen for a minute, head resting on his hands on the steering wheel. He _really_ didn’t think Eric would ever ask, let alone so soon. He’s been thinking about it, sure, but he’s been so focused on the Pochettino meeting this never occurred to him. And he has no idea what he’s going to do.

He realizes his heart’s not going to stop racing any time soon, so he plucks up the courage to slide his hand down between the seat and the door to retrieve his phone. His fingers scrabble on the edges for a minute, frustration amplifying the horrible tightness in his chest.

He starts to type. _Yes_ , Dele’s interested. _No_ , he’s not, he’s not, he’s not interested in helping Eric cheat on Victoria. _But what if it’s over? What if Eric is everything he ever wanted?_ He hates Eric for even asking him, for putting this on Dele. He swallows, types out a quick response with shaky fingers, the only logical response his brain can come up with.

_Aren’t you sick?_

Eric’s response comes too fast.

_Won’t be sick forever…_

_What are you doing Thursday?_

No, Dele’s _so_ not dealing with this right now. Not on the same day he cried in front of Pochettino and got sent home early from training. He considers not even responding. But the question hangs in the air like a fat mosquito, already gorged on Dele’s blood but thirsty for more. In the end, he settles on neutrality. He’s desperate for Eric to reconsider, even though he knows it won’t happen.

_Are you sure it’s a good idea to ask me that?_

_Please let him just take it back, please let him say something that will make it alright,_ he begs silently. Because part of him doesn’t believe Eric and Victoria are as good as over. That’s exactly what he would say, right? Another part of him knows that even if they are broken up, it’s a terrible idea to hook up with a teammate. Before Eric can reply, he follows up with, 

_You said you’re still engaged.._

A _nd we’re still teammates._

He doesn’t want to think about that final part of him, the one that wants Eric desperately, the one that can’t stop thinking about holding Eric in his arms and kissing him. Can’t stop imagining how Eric’s fingers would dig into his hip bones, how Eric’s erection would swell hard against Dele’s thigh. _Yikes._

The texts finally show as read, and Dele’s stomach fills with sick curiosity when the three dots instantly appear at the bottom of the chat. He’s frozen in his seat, waiting. 

_No one would have to find out._

Dele rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. _Is Eric insane?_ Dele doubts they’d be able to keep it a secret from the men they spend hours around each day. And there’s absolutely no way he’s going to be able to keep this from Harry. It’s not like he can just say they’re out to dinner anymore. Harry would know instantly. Part of him wishes desperately that he had kept it to himself, that he had lied. He realizes with a sinking feeling how long gone their friendship must be. Eric’s texted again while Dele’s been silently ranting, and it’s no better.

_Just give me one chance. If you decide to walk away after that, I’ll respect you._

It doesn’t do anything to assuage Dele’s concerns. _Why are you doing this to me?_ Dele wants to ask. Dele’s always trusted Eric but suddenly he’s unsure. What _would_ Eric do if Dele said no? Surely it wouldn’t be so bad he couldn’t handle the few remaining weeks before he moves to Barcelona.

He’s going to say no, he really is. But that part of his mind, the same one that’s fixated on all the contours of Eric’s body, raises protest. He might not be sure of Eric, but he’s sure of himself. Even if he says no, he already knows exactly who his first text will be next time he gets drunk. Wouldn’t it just be better to get it over with now? _Yes,_ he thinks. _Fuck Eric now, and run away to Barcelona._ No, he shouldn’t do that. He shouldn’t fuck Eric at all. He should say no, and then he shouldn’t even touch alcohol, or his phone, until he’s tucked away safely at the Camp Nou. He stares at the screen so long it goes black. 

_I’ll think about it._

He types out slowly, shakily. Dele realizes he’s been sitting in the driveway for about 45 minutes, and he’s getting cold. The text shows as read, and now he’s fed up. He doesn’t want to wait for Eric’s response. He shuts off his phone and storms inside, exhausted and confused from the day. He sits at his kitchen table, sipping slowly on a glass of water. The only thing he’s sure of anymore is no matter what he decides, he’s certainly not telling Harry.

 

 

Eric’s back the next morning. He corners Dele at his locker and leans in close. His eyes are dark, and for a second, Dele’s actually worried he’s going to kiss him right there, in front of everyone.

“Have you made a decision yet?” Eric breathes.

“About Barcelona?” Dele asks. _Please, let it be about Barcelona,_ he hopes, even though he knows it’s not.

Eric rolls his eyes and laughs.

“No, you knob, not about Barcelona.” Dele barely has time to be grateful he doesn’t have to answer that question before Eric speaks again.

“You know what,” he whispers. His voice is low and flirtatious, and Dele slips sideways, out of Eric’s bubble, heart beating fast.

“No,” he says, taking two steps away. 

“No decision? Or no date?” Eric’s still far too close. Dele takes another step back.

“I told you, I need time to think,” Dele mumbles. He glances around to make sure no one’s watching him.

“I don’t _want_ you to think about it, you’re too rational and you’re going to say no.” Eric reaches out towards Dele’s shoulder. He shivers when Eric’s fingers graze the fabric of his jacket.

_And so what if I do?_ wonders Dele. A trapped feeling worms its way into his chest, along with all the others.

“I just need time to think,” says Dele.

 

 

Pochettino has them doing a passing drill. Dele groans when he sees Eric’s in his group. They’re lined up on either side of the field, and Dele knows he’s going to have to jog by Eric every time he takes a turn. Maybe if he can just put his head down, focus on the game, Eric won’t bother him.

He steps over the the ball, fakes a pass once before sending the ball crisply to Lloris. When he passes by Eric, he tries to look away. But he doesn’t miss Eric muttering, “Is it a yes?”

Dele trots on, ignoring him.

He determinedly watches the back of Eriksen’s head when Eric takes his turn, fixes his eyes on the ball as Eric jogs past him and mumbles, “Just make up your mind, Del.”

_Stop thinking._

_Just tell me._

_Just say yes._

It’s never going to end. When Pochettino finally calls them in, Dele turns and sprints to the sideline so fast he’s almost worried he’s going to tweak a hamstring. 

Eric doesn’t take the hint, and catches up to Dele a minute later, when he’s gulping down water, adjusting his socks. 

“Dele, don’t make me wait like this,” Eric whines, shuffling back and forth between his feet like he thinks he’s being cute.

“Would you back off? I told you I’d think about it,” Dele snaps. His voice comes out in a sharp hiss. Judging by the way Eric does a double take at his words, his anger and frustration are probably written all across his face.

“You’re killing me here,“ says Eric. Dele _hates_ how desperate he looks. That trapped feeling in his chest is telling him to hit Eric in the face and run.

Dele’s spared having to respond by Eriksen, who’s just trotted up beside them.

“What’s this about, Dier?” he says. _No, please, not now._

“Dele’s withholding very important information from me,” and holy shit, Dele wants to disappear into the ground. He’d do anything to extinguish that stupid twinkle from Eric’s eye. How can Eric just casually float this right under Christian’s nose? Doesn’t he care?

Dele chucks his water bottle to the ground in front of a stunned Eriksen, and walks away to the fringes of the team. He needs to calm down, now. He’s embarrassed and furious, and probably going to hurt someone if he doesn’t get his feelings under control.

He thinks back to the other night, when he had the old Eric back with him under the stars. He wants that old Eric back, desperately. _Come on,_ he tells himself. _You’ve spent countless evenings with him. How bad can it be?_ He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, and heads back onto the field. Eric seems to have taken the hint, and is now staying as far away from Dele as possible.

_How bad can a date with Eric be?_ He’d been so focused on what it would mean, what would happen after, he’d never really considered it. His fantasies had always centered around things they’d do between the sheets. Places they’d go when they’d already been together for years. Maybe a date _isn’t_ the worst idea. There are still so many questions Dele wants to ask. And it doesn’t have to mean anything. He thinks back to Eric’s text messages.

_If you decide to walk away after that, I’ll respect you._

He hadn’t trusted Eric when he’d said that. But if he’s going to get to the good part, the parts he’s been dreaming of for months, he has to take small steps. Dele jogs back onto the field with his mind made up.

 

 

After practice, Dele corners Eric in the locker room. Eric looks surprised, but pleased, like he already knows what Dele’s going to say.

“Yes,” whispers Dele, looking Eric dead in the eye. “I’ll go with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I'm sure this isn't actually how transfers work.


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